


These Gordian Knots We Tie

by clotpolesonly



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: (yes between Sterek this time but it doesn't come to anything), Accidental Subspace, Alpha Laura Hale, Alternate Universe, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Anonymous Sex, Bottom Derek Hale, Derek Hale Has Issues, Dom Stiles Stilinski, Dom/sub Undertones, Drinking, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, M/M, Model Derek Hale, Non-Consensual Touching, Non-Sexual Bondage, Panic Attacks, Past Kate Argent/Derek Hale, Photographer Stiles Stilinski, Rough Sex, Self-Harm, Semi-Public Sex, Shibari, Slow Burn, Sub Derek Hale, Subdrop, Subspace, Supportive Stiles Stilinski, Under-negotiated Kink, Unhappy Ending, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Verbal Humiliation, brief but explicit Derek Hale/OC, but might be updated with a happy ending later on, hopefully, in that it's not meant to be a scene, not between sterek, sex as a form of self harm, slight daddy kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:15:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 29,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23433022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clotpolesonly/pseuds/clotpolesonly
Summary: Derek needs cash. Getting fucked up doesn't pay the rent, and when Laura cuts him off, any job will do. He doesn't even bother to read the full craigslist ad.Maybe he should have.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 53
Kudos: 183





	These Gordian Knots We Tie

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: DO NOT READ IF YOU REQUIRE HAPPY ENDINGS. i went into this intending for it to have one but it's been almost 2 years and i've stayed stuck right here, lol, at what feels to me like the most heartbreaking possible halfway point. so i finally caved and am posting it as is, still with the _hope_ that i continue and resolve it at some point, but it is not currently in the works which is why i'm posting it as completed. i repeat, as it stands, THIS IS AN UNHAPPY ENDING.
> 
> so with that out of the way, i'll give some clarifications. on the setup, the Hale timeline remains the same as canon, more or less. Kate happened, the fire happened, Peter's coma happened. (no mention of Cora, sorry Cora, #rip.) the rest of the cast has been transplanted into NYC. they're older and have their own semi-canon-inspired lives there that the Hales have never interacted with previously. just roll with it, lol.
> 
> Derek is very promiscuous in this fic, in a very self-destructive way. there are many references to Derek having sex with people that are not Stiles. there is one explicit hookup between Derek and a stranger (this is where the daddy kink and the dissociation during sex happen) that might be triggery for some people, so proceed with caution. Derek's relationship with sex is very bad (thank you, Kate) and there is actually no sex at all between Derek and Stiles in this fic. if anybody needs further info on that last non-con touching tag, i'll leave more info in the end notes.
> 
> one other thing of note: i actually consider Stiles to be ace in this fic. at least, i was writing him that way. i'm not tagging because it's not made explicit in (this half) of the fic (that i may or may not get around to writing the other half of) and i don't want to bait people into reading it expecting explicit representation that's not there. but it's there in my heart, lol.

Derek woke up slowly, reluctantly, and with a very strong suspicion that his eyelids were actually superglued together.

They weren’t really, but they certainly felt that way when he tried to pry them open. His head throbbed and his thoughts sort of felt like a lava lamp: thick and gelatinous, slippery and hot, impossible to get a hold on. He let them slide for now, trying to will himself to just pass out again instead. A distressing amount of sunlight was filtering into his bedroom and there was no reason for him to be awake anyway.

God, hangovers were the worst. He longed for those innocent childhood days when he’d thought being a werewolf would save him from the perils of overindulging as an adult, back before he’d realized that accelerated healing wouldn’t magically rehydrate his cells without actually drinking water, which he clearly had not done last night. He didn’t remember not drinking water, but drunk-him had long since established himself as an asshole with no forethought to spare for his sober morning counterpart, so this wasn’t exactly surprising.

The passing out thing wasn’t happening. Primarily because the noise that had woken him up had apparently been the front door to his apartment opening and closing with a snap, which was not a good sign. The only person who ever came here was—

“ _Really,_ Derek?”

—his sister.

Derek screwed his gluey eyes shut as tight as they would go, ignoring the way that action made his head pound even harder, and buried his face in a pillow.

“Derek, it’s past one in the afternoon,” Laura said, unforgivingly loud and clearly an accusation of something.

“Shouldn’t you be at work?” Derek’s voice was rough and gritty, not to mention muffled by the pillow he didn’t bother removing from his face.

Laura heard him anyway, and she was not impressed.

“I was,” she said. “I took a late lunch to come check on my baby brother, since I hadn’t heard from him in three days. And what do I find him doing?”

“Sleeping?” Derek tried.

“Recovering from a binge again,” Laura said, all false brightness. “Wallowing in his own filth, again. Certainly not _job-hunting_ like he promised he would be. _Again._ ”

Derek finally forced his uncooperative body to roll over, directing his glare at the cracked ceiling because sitting up to face her was just one motion too much for his headache to handle.

“I’m not wallowing,” he said. “I’m sleeping. Or at least, I was trying to.”

“And while you do that, _I’m_ trying to make sure you don’t get evicted.”

“I’m not getting evicted.”

“Really?” Laura asked, and Derek could hear the tapping of her toe against the floor, each _tap-tap-tap_ loud and clear. “Then I assume you’ve paid your rent? On time, for once?”

“It’s not due until Thursday.”

“ _Today_ is Thursday! Jesus Christ, Derek.”

Fuck, was it really? Derek groped around on his bedside table until he came up with his phone—at six percent because apparently he’d tried to plug it in with his laptop cable—and sure enough, there the date was, glaring up at him from beside the little red battery symbol. He let the phone fall with a clatter and scrubbed his hands over his face. The scratch of overlong stubble made his palms sting.

He made it to an upright position this time, feet on the floor and head swimming. He found a water bottle waiting for him, held out by an irate Laura, and he had to be even more hungover than he realized if he hadn’t heard her leave the room to raid his fridge.

One long draw was enough to kick-start his healing. It wasn’t enough to get rid of the headache entirely, but it reduced the pounding to a manageable level and let him stop squinting against the afternoon glare, so that was something. He could finish recuperating when he’d gotten his sister off his back. Which, admittedly, might be easier said than done; her eyes were already glowing red.

“Quit with the alpha eyes,” he said. “I’ll get it paid.”

“With what money?” Laura demanded. “When was the last time you got a paycheck?”

Alright, so it had been a few weeks since he’d had any real income. Maybe a month, but surely it hadn’t been any longer than that. He gritted his teeth. The water bottle crackled in his tight grip.

“I’ll get it paid,” he said again.

Laura snatched the bottle out of his hand before it could crumple completely. “You damn well better,” she said, “because I am not paying it for you this time. Not again.”

Derek fought down a growl. “I never asked you to.”

Laura ignored him, sweeping across the room to throw open the window and let in air that wasn’t three days stale.

“Maybe before, it was being supportive,” she went on. “It was being respectful of your wishes and helping you get back on your feet. But I cannot enable you anymore, Derek.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means I’ve been supporting you for years instead of forcing you to take care of your damn self.” Laura rounded on him, eyes flashing. “The fact is, you _have_ the means to support yourself, and yet you refuse to use it.”

Derek did growl this time, the sound rumbling out of his chest before he could stop it while his claws ripped into the sheets beneath him. “You know why I can’t do that.”

“I know why you _won’t_ do it,” Laura corrected him. “And I’ve indulged you on that for a very long time, but I can’t afford to anymore. I literally _cannot afford_ to support the both of us just because you refuse to let either of us touch the insurance money for anything other than—”

Derek opened his mouth around another snarl but Laura cut him off, waving a finger in his face like she might actually pin his lips closed with it.

“No, Derek, just _shut up,_ ” she said. “Either suck it up and pay your rent with the money you have, or get a job and keep it for once, because I’m done with this.”

Derek ignored the chill that trickled down his spine at the rock-steady beat of her heart under that pronouncement and smacked her hand out of the way. “What kind of job should that be, huh? In case you haven’t noticed, none of the others have really worked out.”

“I don’t care!” Laura threw her hands in the air in a gesture so reminiscent of their mother that it made Derek’s already unsettled stomach lurch. “Hock a kidney on the black market if you have to. Shine shoes on the street, sell used cars, be a model in a fucking Sears catalog for all I care! Just _get a fucking job_ and get your act together.”

Laura was slamming the front door hard enough to leave it quivering in its frame before Derek could push any words past the clenching of his teeth. Head still throbbing and eyes burning blue, he snatched up the half-full water bottle and threw it as hard as he could at the nearest wall.

* * *

Derek made it until dinnertime ignoring his problems like usual. He drank more water until his headache went away, did an hour’s worth of push-ups on his living room floor, ate his last two packets of ramen noodles. Just as he realized that he couldn’t afford to buy any more, he got a visit from his landlord about that rent. There might’ve been a few veiled threats in there.

Derek resisted the urge to just rip the guy’s throat out and be done with it; his nerves were too frayed for dealing with this. He seriously considered offering to just suck the guy’s cock and call them square—he sucked a lot of cocks as it was, what was one more?—but the thought of Laura’s reaction if she found out about that was enough to shame him preemptively. Instead he swore up and down that he would have the money in a week, _maybe_ two.

The landlord left with a look on his face like he had a lemon under his tongue and a badger up his ass, but Derek didn’t care as long as he had a little wiggle room. Only now he was in a bind because Laura had meant it: she wasn’t helping him this time.

But Derek had meant it too when he’d said that jobs hadn’t really worked out for him so far. _Nothing_ had worked out for him. He’d flunked out of college his sophomore year, and not because he wasn’t smart enough to understand the material. He just didn’t have the discipline for it, or the people skills to handle classmates and professors.

Or maybe it had just been the thought of all the empty seats in the stands at graduation.

The point was that he wasn’t qualified for anything. He’d tried coffee shops and bagging groceries and waiting tables. He didn’t have anywhere _near_ the right disposition—or the patience—for retail. He’d proven himself too volatile and aggressive to be a bouncer. The longest job he’d held in the last few years had been eight months on a construction site, but even then he’d been late and hungover one too many times.

He just wasn’t cut out for anything. But he had to do _something_ or he’d be out on his ass in a few days without Laura’s help. So he opened up craigslist on his laptop and started scrolling.

He scrolled past a whole lot of sketchy looking ads, the kind that were probably posted by prospective serial killers looking for victims no one would miss. A bunch of one-off odd jobs that wouldn’t give him enough for rent and therefore wouldn’t be worth doing. Plenty of stuff he wasn’t qualified to do. More sketchy shit.

He’d mostly fallen into a scrolling trance, only halfway paying attention, when one word caught his eye: “model”.

_Be a model in a fucking Sears catalog for all I care!_

Laura hadn’t been serious with that. It was just a throwaway suggestion, but Derek stopped scrolling.

He knew what he looked like. He had always been cute growing up, the kind of boy who got his cheeks pinched by all the grandmas and got giggled over in the cafeteria. Now that he was grown, though, he didn’t get giggles anymore. He got stares and whistles and numbers written on napkins. He got free drinks and propositions. He got quick fucks in bathroom stalls and alleyways and anywhere else he wanted.

His looks were the only thing that people consistently liked about him. He’d heard it all before, plenty of whispered comments from people who thought he couldn’t overhear.

“He's a dropout, so he's not that bright, but he's got a hell of an ass.”

“Not much in the way of personality, but damn, those _eyes._ ”

“Total asshole, but the abs make up for it, at least the first time around.”

His face and his body—they were the only things he had going for him. And looking pretty and getting his picture taken would probably be quick enough that even _he_ couldn’t manage to fuck it up before payday.

He clicked on the ad. He didn’t bother reading it in detail—he wasn’t exactly in a position to be picky, and how complicated could it be, anyway?—just scanned to make sure it would cover his rent before bringing up the contact email and responding. The second the email was sent, he slammed the laptop closed and shoved it off his lap, dragging his hands over his face and feeling the scratch of neglected stubble.

He really needed to relax. He couldn’t afford to buy any drinks, but that wasn’t why he went out to bars in the first place. Besides, he would just find someone willing to buy his drinks _for_ him. He always did.

* * *

The next day, Derek followed the instructions from the return email to an apartment in a pretty decent neighborhood, nothing flashy but certainly better than his own. He tucked his phone back into his pocket and didn’t bother nodding to the woman who smiled at him on the stairwell. He wasn’t here on any sort of social visit; he just wanted to get in, smile for the camera, get paid, and get out. Quick, simple, easy.

He braced himself outside the door. He even tried to _smile_ and _look friendly_ like Laura used to tell him before every job interview, like that would be enough to fool people into thinking he was worth working with.

The door opened almost immediately, quick enough to be startling, and left Derek’s fist hanging in the air mid-knock. The guy on the other side was all messy hair and wide eyes and he gave Derek a complete once-over that didn’t feel salacious at all—not something Derek was accustomed to, honestly.

“Hey!” he said. “Derek, right? Derek Hale? Here for the modeling thing? Please tell me you are.”

Nonplussed, Derek nodded.

“Great.” The guy smiled and threw the door open further, beckoning for Derek to join him inside. “Awesome,” he went on. “Yeah, okay. So, I’m Stiles, as you probably know from the ad.”

Derek had not known that, but then he also hadn’t read most of the ad. He figured admitting as much probably wouldn’t endear him to his new employer, so he kept his mouth shut. That was usually safest for him if he wanted people to keep him around.

Stiles led him into a living room with a wall of decently sized windows and a wide open space. There was a heavy leather couch and armchair set too, but they were pushed off to the side, clumped around a coffee table and television and leaving plenty of room for what was probably Stiles’ makeshift photo shoot backdrop: a black cloth tacked up high on one wall, spilling out across the wooden floor for several feet, and an assortment of chairs, crates, and props.

Stiles caught him looking and laughed. “Oh no,” he said. “Don’t worry about that just yet. Today isn’t for shooting. I just want to talk you through it, make sure you’re comfortable with everything, lay out the boundaries and whatnot. This is probably a little different than what you’re used to if you’ve done any previous modeling and, as you might imagine, it requires that a bit more focus be put on ensuring your safety and comfort.”

Derek frowned, confused, but Stiles had already turned away. He leaned over the back of the couch to snag a wide book with a shiny black cover off the coffee table.

“I have some examples here,” he said, “of the kind of photos I’m aiming to get out of this shoot. I don’t have a plan set in stone yet—that’s the kind of thing I like to work out with my model, when I can—so you can give this a look-through and let me know if there’s anything you’d like me to avoid when I start laying things out in more detail.”

No less confused, Derek took the book from him, flipped it open, and almost dropped it.

There was a whole lot more skin than he had expected. Almost entirely skin, in fact, except for where that skin was crisscrossed with rope. The first photo showed a slim Asian woman thoroughly trussed up, head thrown to one side and long, dark hair positioned just so to cover most of her exposed breast.

The next photo was a different woman, also nude, with ropes around her chest and thighs and slim waist that all led up out of frame. It almost looked like she was suspended from the ceiling by them, only one foot on the ground, leaning forward as if she were about to take flight.

The third showed a man with a mop of light curls that concealed most of his chiseled face, his back arched, chest straining against the rope looped around it.

They were all like that: nude, or mostly so, and bound with rope. Derek couldn’t bring himself to flip through the rest of the pages, but he also couldn’t seem to make himself stop looking. It still took a few, stunned seconds for it to dawn on him that _this_ was what Stiles expected to do to him. This was the type of modeling he had applied for.

He closed the book with a snap, already feeling naked and caught, but that didn’t take away the stark awareness of what he had in his hands. His sweaty palms were probably going to leave a mark on the smooth cover. Derek’s scrambled brain tried to formulate a response, a polite way to back out of this, but he looked up to find Stiles watching him with some level of concern.

“You...you didn’t read the whole ad,” Stiles said slowly. “Did you?”

Derek opened his mouth but nothing came out.

Stiles grimaced. “Yeah, you look really freaked out. You totally didn’t read it.”

“This is, uh…” Derek had to stop and swallow—a difficult task with how dry his mouth had become. He tried to hand the book back and, when Stiles didn’t take it, dropped it down onto the couch instead. Anything to put some distance between him and it. “...not for me,” he finished, the words stilted. “I’m sorry for wasting your time.”

He didn’t make it to the door before Stiles was sliding in front of him, hands held up to keep Derek from leaving.

“Wait, wait, wait!” he said. “Hold up, just... Okay, so obviously it caught you a little off guard. That’s fair, especially if you didn’t read the job description. I don’t know why you would apply for a job when you don’t know what it is, but—”

“I know the ad said ‘modelling’, not ‘porn’,” Derek shot back. He hadn’t read all the details, he would admit to that, but he’d paid enough attention to get at least that much.

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Dude, it’s not _porn._ Did that really look like porn to you?”

“Looked like bondage.”

“Aesthetic rope bondage, yes,” Stiles allowed. “But it’s nothing more than aesthetic. At least, not here. It _can_ be more, obviously, but at its core, shibari is a beautiful, intricate, and evocative art form. It’s not an inherently sexual thing and nothing of that nature would be asked of you. It’s just the tying and the picture-taking and that’s it, I promise. Completely non-sexual.”

His heartbeat was steady, for all that that wasn’t an infallible indicator of truth-telling. Derek wasn’t sure how much stock he put in it here. He said non-sexual, but the people in those pictures had looked so _erotic._

Derek shifted on his feet. The thought of being tied up by this stranger… He had let a lot of people do a lot of things to him, but this was something he had never done, something he had never even considered allowing with any of the men or women he’d hooked up with. Then again, this wasn’t a hookup. It was a job, or it was supposed to be.

Stiles was bouncing on the balls of his feet, full of nervous energy.

“I can get you references, if you need them,” he said, thumbing over his shoulder like the references in question would be waiting out in the hallway. “You can talk to Kira and Lydia and Isaac about modelling for me. They can vouch; I’ve done plenty of shoots with all of them. Too many, actually, which is why I need someone else!”

He gestured at Derek, a flaily sort of motion that he quickly curtailed by tucking his hands up under his arms. “Things can get kind of stale with the same three models over and over again,” he went on with a shrug, “and if I want to sell any more of my pictures, then I need to spice things up, get more variety in my work, and _you—_ ”

Stiles cut off and shook his head, giving Derek another of those easy once-overs.

“At the risk of making you even more uncomfortable than you already are, I’ve just got to say that you are absolutely _stunning._ I mean, really, Derek, you might be the single most aesthetically perfect human being I have ever laid eyes on, and I think you would make for a phenomenal sequence. If you could be comfortable in the ropes.”

Strangely, Stiles’ proclamation didn’t make Derek uncomfortable. Maybe it was the lack of heat in Stiles’ gaze, the simple appreciation in the way his eyes kept tracing Derek’s face like he never wanted to stop looking at him. It felt different from the looks Derek was used to getting. It sort of felt good.

He still hesitated.

“Look, Derek.” Stiles let his hands fall and cocked his head to the side, eyes narrowing in speculation. “Have you ever tried it before?”

Derek raised an eyebrow. “Being tied up?” He’d had a few adventures with handcuffs in the past, but nothing hardcore. Nothing like this. “Not exactly.”

“How about this, then.”

Stiles held up a finger, gesturing for Derek to stay where he was, and disappeared down the short hallway on the far side of the living room area. He was back in a few seconds and he had a length of rope, just a few feet by the look of it. When Derek eyed it warily, Stiles gave him a reassuring smile.

“I want to try something on you,” he said. “Nothing big!” he added in a rush. “A simple wrist cuff. A double column tie, it’s called, actually. Quick and easy to get out of. Just as an experiment, you know? If it tweaks your fight or flight response, then clearly this isn’t the gig for you and you can be on your way, no hard feelings. You’ll probably have a dozen other photographers jumping through hoops for the chance to have you on their set, and I can put my ad back up and wait for someone else to bite. But if it doesn’t…”

Stiles’ smile widened hopefully. “Well, I’d really love to work with you.”

Derek stared at him, a little stunned. No one had ever said that to him, even at the jobs he’d actually gotten. A not so quiet voice in the back of his head insisted that Stiles wouldn’t be so quick to say it if he actually knew Derek or had spent more than six minutes in his presence.

And yet, when Stiles slowly reached out and took hold of his wrist, Derek didn’t protest. Because nothing about this man said _threat._ Stiles was human, plain and pure, with none of the trace scents or behavioral tics that usually came with hunters or mercenaries. His heart was steady and nervous-quick, which his chemosignals supported. Derek knew what deceit looked and smelled like on a person; he’d learned it the hard way a long time ago. And there wasn’t any of that here. Stiles was refreshingly guileless in his earnest, rambly way.

Besides, the ropes were thin. It wouldn’t take more than a tug for Derek to break them if he needed to. There was no danger here. And he needed the money. If he walked out now, he would still need to come up with rent money by the end of the week and he would’ve wasted a whole day with nothing to show for it. He couldn’t go crawling back to Laura in the end, begging her for help she was no longer willing to give him. He wouldn’t be that pathetic and useless. He had to prove that he could do _something_ right.

So he let Stiles pull his arms up in front of him. He held them a few inches apart the way Stiles told him to, pressing out against the ropes as Stiles wound them once, twice, three times around both wrists. The ends of the rope were wrapped around the middle, between Derek’s wrists, cinching to pull the previous wraps tighter until they felt like real cuffs.

They didn’t hurt, though. They didn’t even pinch, not with the ropes laid neatly against his skin. All the pressure was distributed evenly so that no one wrap had more strain on it than the others, even when Derek flexed and pulled against them. The cuffs were just a sturdy presence, not quite comfortable or uncomfortable, but undeniably and inescapably _there,_ holding him in place right where Stiles wanted him to be.

Stiles tied the ends in a knot, and then in another knot going the opposite direction. He took a moment to slip a finger underneath each cuff—presumably checking to make sure nothing was too tight or cutting off circulation—then finished with a flourish as if to say _ta-da!_

“And that’s all there is to it,” he said. “Like I said: quick and simple. How’s it feel? Do you hate it?”

Derek didn’t hate it. He had sort of been expecting an instant panic response, to feel like a trapped animal ready to chew a limb off to escape. Instead, there was just the urge to pull against it again, to keep testing the binding. To push and feel the ropes push back.

“It’s...not bad,” Derek managed to say.

Stiles was watching him again, an intensity to him this time, like Derek was the only thing in the world that mattered in this moment. “You sure?” he asked. “Because I meant what I said earlier about boundaries. As much as I’d love to get a camera on you, the most important thing, really, is your safety and your well-being. Some of the ties I’d like to use for this shoot are a lot more elaborate than this, and a lot more restrictive. If that’s something that you think will be beyond what you’re comfortable with, it would be in both our best interests if—”

“I can do it.”

The words were out of Derek’s mouth before he had decided on saying them. They sent a little frisson down his spine, something between a thrill and a chill, but he didn’t take them back. It wasn’t that the cuffs felt _good_ or anything. They just weren’t bad enough to miss out on the money they would earn him. He could handle being tied up if it would pay his rent and get his sister off his back. That was all this was.

He held his head a bit higher under Stiles’ scrutiny. The ropes were smooth against Derek’s skin, and Stiles’ fingers were warm; he had never let go of Derek’s wrists.

It was a few more seconds before Stiles was convinced. Then he smiled wider than ever, a real grin that made Derek want to smile back at him, and said, “I guess we’re in business then, Mr. Hale.”

* * *

Derek walked most of the way home. Normally he would’ve taken a taxi or an Uber, but if he couldn’t afford ramen noodles then he certainly couldn’t pay a cab fare. It was alright, though. After the meeting with Stiles, he didn’t particularly want to be cooped up in a car, stuck in traffic for an hour with some stranger who would try to make small talk. The fresh air—as fresh as it ever could be in NYC anyway—went a long way towards clearing his head.

He rubbed absently at his wrist. It had only taken a few seconds for Stiles to unwind the ropes and set him free, and it hadn’t been tight enough to leave any kind of mark, but Derek could still feel the phantom of it.

The buzz of his phone pulled him out of his thoughts. He held it up to see Laura’s name on the screen and contemplated just letting it go to voicemail, but he knew from experience that that would increase the chances of her showing up at his apartment by a whole lot, so he swiped to accept the call.

“What?”

“Derek,” came Laura’s voice down the line. “You’re awake!”

He pulled the phone back to check the time. “It’s 2:30 in the afternoon.”

“That’s certainly never stopped you from being asleep before.”

Derek pushed the crosswalk button with far more force than necessary. An older woman waiting to cross the same way shuffled over to give him a wide berth.

“What do you want, Laura?” he asked tightly.

There was a rustling of papers on the other end of the phone. Official documents of some kind, maybe. Briefings or memos or reports, or whatever the hell else Laura dealt with at her job. The real, stable, grownup job that offered benefits and a 401k. She was probably having lunch at her desk, taking time out of her busy, busy schedule for him. He should be honored.

“I’m just checking in,” she said breezily. “How’s that job hunt going, Der?”

Derek clenched his jaw and the older woman took off across the street before the light had even changed, horns honking in her wake. God, the way Laura said it was so _pointed,_ like an accusation in and of itself. He shoved his free hand in his pocket and followed his fellow pedestrian’s lead, not bothering to look both ways.

“It’s going well, actually,” he told her, just as pointedly. “I got a job.”

The papers stopped rustling. “Wait, really?” Genuinely surprised.

“Yes, _really,_ ” Derek bit out. “And it’ll more than pay my rent, so you don’t have to worry about throwing your money away on me again.”

At least, not this month or next. Derek didn’t want to think about what would happen after that. This thing with Stiles wasn’t exactly a long term solution. He’d been hired for five photo shoots over the course of a few weeks, partial payment after each session and half again at the end of the run, and then it would be over. Then Derek would need to find another job, and another, if he didn’t want to fall back on Laura’s support again or end up out on the street.

But he would find something else. He _would._ He had never asked for her support in the first place. She had just swooped in and taken over like she always did, and suddenly that was his fault. Well, fuck that. _Fuck_ her.

Laura’s indignant scoff was loud in his ear. “Really? You’re going to be like that?”

“I’m not being like anything,” Derek insisted.

“God, you’re _impossible,_ do you know that?” He could practically hear Laura’s eye roll, the grimace that would be on her face right about now. “Come on, Derek, you can’t possibly blame me for being fed up with your bullshit.”

“Well, if you’re so fed up with me, then why even bother calling?”

“Maybe I shouldn’t!”

“ _Fine._ ”

Derek hung up before Laura could strike back. He had the urge to throw his phone at the nearest wall, but he was painfully aware that he wouldn’t be able to afford buying another one. The plastic creaked in his hand with how tightly he was holding it, but he just shoved it back into his pocket.

He didn’t need Laura’s fucking help. He didn’t need her judgment or her condescension or her fucking pity. He didn’t need her _at all._ Even if she was the only person he had left, the only person in his life who cared about him even a little bit.

And now he’d ruined that too.

Of course he had. He ruined everything eventually.

* * *

“Okay, so, here’s how this is going to go.”

Derek stood in the open living room of Stiles’ apartment again, arms crossed over his chest as Stiles brandished a fancy-looking camera in one hand and a length of coiled rope in the other.

“The tie I’m hoping to use today is a fairly simple one,” Stiles was saying. “It should only take a few minutes. Once it’s on and secure and you’re comfortable with it, we’ll put you in front of the camera.” He gestured toward the makeshift set, empty of any furniture or props this time. “I’ll give you some direction to make sure I get the shots I need. Once I’ve got them, we untie you, I hand you today’s check, and you’re good to go.”

He made it all sound so easy. His tone was light and professional, matter-of-fact in a way that almost made Derek forget that he was about to let this man tie him up with legitimate bondage gear.

Derek swallowed down the nervousness that clogged up his throat. “Is this one going to be like...the ones in that book?”

Stiles squinted over at the book in question for a second, confused, before it dawned on him. “Oh!” he said. “Nude, you mean?”

Derek nodded and hoped he wasn’t flushed. It would be nothing short of ridiculous if he was. Derek was no stranger to nudity, or even nudity with strangers. There wasn’t a dive bar bathroom in New York he hadn’t stripped off in at some point or other. The prospect of being naked here shouldn’t make him squirm so much. Maybe it was just that he was sober now, or that Stiles _wasn’t_ going to fuck him. Both were pretty far outside his realm of experience.

But Stiles just shook his head and so, “Not this time, no. I figured we could ease you into the full frontal aspect.” He laughed a bit at his own joke, then cleared his throat. “Would you, uh, be okay with being shirtless for this shoot?”

That wasn’t so bad. Derek threw his jacket over the back of the leather couch and pulled his Henley up over his head to follow it. Again, Stiles’ eyes were on him immediately, scanning his torso with laser focus that didn’t burn. He shook his head again with a smile.

“Man, this is going to be glorious,” he breathed. It was more to himself than to Derek, but Derek found himself standing taller anyway.

Stiles snapped himself out of his daze before things got too awkward. He made a motion like he meant to clap. Both his hands were full, though, and he almost dropped his expensive camera. The resulting full-body flail was the funniest thing Derek had seen in a long time and resulted in the rope on the floor, the camera cradled protectively against Stiles’ stomach, and a thorough blush on Stiles’ cheeks.

“We’re going to go ahead and pretend that didn’t happen,” Stiles said gamely.

Derek bit back a laugh. “Whatever you say.”

Stiles shot him a dirty look as he laid the camera down on the coffee table with the utmost care. Then he snatched up the rope from the floor.

“Mind if I put some music on?” Stiles asked. “I’ve got Pandora.”

When Derek didn’t voice a protest, Stiles unearthed his iPhone and a dock. A few button pushes had eighties rock ballads crooning through the speakers, not loud enough to be anything more than pleasant background noise. Stiles nodded along appreciatively as he turned back to Derek, holding up the rope in front of him. With one tug, the whole coil unraveled.

“Now,” he said, a smug grin on his lips. “Let’s get started, shall we?”

Derek’s nerves made a resurgence. He stubbornly ignored them. “What are you going to do?”

Stiles took hold of what looked like the middle of the very long rope, right where it was folded in half to form a little loop. A quick twist of his wrist saw it wrapped around itself to make a knot, which Stiles then tugged on until it turned into two separate circles of rope connected in the middle.

“Today I want to do what’s sometimes called a dragonfly sleeve,” Stiles said. “What it will do is bind your arms to each other behind your back. Is that okay?”

Derek nodded mutely.

“Alright. So if you could just—”

With a light touch, Stiles guided Derek’s arms where he wanted them. The two circles of rope he had created slid over Derek’s wrists and then up and up, all the way to his shoulders, almost like the straps of a backpack.

Set up as they were, Derek couldn’t actually _see_ what Stiles was doing. The man was a warm presence behind him, close enough to raise the hairs on the back of Derek’s neck even though he didn’t feel at all threatening. He was just _there,_ like the cuffs around Derek’s wrists had been _there_ the day before. It was impossible not to be aware of them, of the presence, the sensation.

Stiles kept up a running stream of commentary as he worked, which Derek was beginning to understand was sort of his standard operating procedure. He talked Derek through the process as he tied another knot like the first and dragged it into two more circles. These ones followed the same path and came to settle on his biceps, tightening bit by bit, pulling Derek’s shoulders back.

The rope _shshed_ against itself with every pull, a steady susurration that was loud in Derek’s sensitive ears. Overly sensitive, maybe. Everything seemed louder than it usually did, or maybe Derek was just paying more attention. He felt almost hyper-focused. Every brush of Stiles’ fingers up his arms was hot and distracting, and the next loops coming up to rest just above the crook of his elbows made him shiver.

He had stopped listening to Stiles’ explanations. The words didn’t matter much anyway. Regardless of what he was saying, his tone was low and smooth and almost hypnotic, especially with the soft music still playing in the background. Derek felt like he was floating on all of it, the voice and the _shhh_ and the press of knots into his skin, every point of contact like a beacon to his senses.

“Done!”

The exclamation cut through Derek’s haze. It took several long seconds for Derek to get thoughts back into his head, which felt fuzzy and vague. On reflex, he made to rub his forehead, but he couldn’t. The rope all down his arms held him tightly in place and the aborted motion had him swaying.

Stiles’ hands came down on his shoulders to steady him. “Yeah,” he said. “It’ll fuck with your balance a little bit. Don’t worry, I won’t let you fall over.”

He kept his word as he directed Derek over to the black backdrop and helped him to kneel. It was a lot harder without the use of his arms, but Stiles made sure he stayed upright until he was settled. Stiles came around in front of him, eyeing the scene critically, and Derek had a moment of disorientation.

On his knees like this, looking up: it was a position he had been in a thousand times before, but never like this. He clenched his hands into fists. If he twisted just so, he could curl his fingers around the lowest set of ropes, wrapped twice around his wrists and knotted there. Having something to hold onto grounded him a bit as Stiles nodded and stepped away.

The actual photo shoot part was as easy as Derek had expected it to be when he had clicked on the modelling ad. All he had to do was follow instructions: face the light, twist this way, chin up, arms flexed, arched back, lean forward, head down. The shutter click was a small, tinny sound that was mostly swallowed by the music and Stiles’ encouragements.

It didn’t last very long—or, at least, Derek didn’t think it did, but he wasn’t particularly confident in his grasp of time right now. After what seemed like just a few minutes, Stiles gave one last pleased noise and lowered his camera.

“I think I’ve got everything I need!” he said. “And let me tell you, man, I cannot _wait_ to get these developed properly because they are going to be amazing.”

Derek didn’t know how to respond to that, but it didn’t matter. Stiles was already pushing in close again, camera safely deposited elsewhere. Derek had to work to uncurl his fingers so that Stiles could get at the knots; they didn’t want to let go. They were just stiff, he told himself. Too long in one position.

The rope slid off of Derek’s arms all in one go, loop after loop falling away easily at Stiles’ gentle urging. Somehow, having freedom of motion back was just as unbalancing as the initial loss had been. His arms felt big and unwieldy, almost in the way. He didn’t seem to know what to do with them anymore besides stare at them.

There were marks this time, pink indentations marching up and down the otherwise smooth skin. He ran his fingers over them to feel the heat gathered there. They would be gone long before he got home.

“Here you go, big guy.”

Derek looked up to find Stiles standing over him again, blocking the fading light from the large windows. In his hand was a check: Derek’s first payment.

“For a job well done,” Stiles said. “You deserve it, Derek. And I’m really looking forward to our next shoot.”

Derek let Stiles haul him off the ground, quietly glad for the way Stiles didn’t let go until he had his feet firmly under him. He didn’t look at the check until he had dressed and given Stiles some sort of goodbye that he didn’t really remember. Once he was on the sidewalk outside Stiles’ building, he took a deep breath and held it up in the fading late afternoon sunlight.

Almost four hundred dollars. That was just a third of his rent, but it felt like a hell of a lot for the amount of work he had done and how little time it had taken. Still, it was _his money._ Money that he had earned on his own. Money that meant he didn’t have to see that tight-lipped look on Laura’s face as she promised to take care of it.

Money that made the fuzzy, off-balance feeling worth it.

* * *

Derek deposited the check on his way home—walking again, and glad for the exercise this time. It helped him to shake off the weird mood Stiles’ photo shoot had left him with. He’d even managed a polite smile for the teller at the bank.

He definitely wasn’t smiling anymore when he reached his apartment to find the door already unlocked and Laura’s scent on the knob. He considered just turning around and leaving, but his sister would’ve heard him arrive and there was no doubt that she would chase him down. She had always been faster than him, even before she had become his alpha. There was no avoiding her, no matter how much he didn’t want to do this right now.

Laura was on his couch, legs crossed daintily at the ankle and her purse still on her lap. The smile she gave Derek was wide and forced.

“There you are,” she said. “I was wondering when you’d make it home.”

“You could’ve called,” Derek pointed out.

“I wasn’t sure you would answer, after the last one.”

Derek turned away. He shucked out of his jacket and tossed it aside, not caring where it landed. If he had had literally anything in his kitchen, he would have busied himself with that, but before today he couldn’t afford to restock. Actually, he didn’t remember the last time he had gone grocery shopping himself. There was a strong possibility that Laura had been doing it for him for a while, and that realization did nothing to improve Derek’s mood.

“Derek, I’m sorry,” Laura said suddenly. “About that call. I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that. I wasn’t at my best.”

She paused, probably waiting for Derek to offer an apology of his own, to say that he hadn’t been at his best either and there were no hard feelings. But _bullshit_ and _fed up_ were still banging around in Derek’s head and the words wouldn’t come to his lips. The expectant silence stretched until it went thin and brittle between them.

Eventually, Laura smiled again, just as fake this time but even less convincing.

“Why don’t you tell me about this new job of yours,” she said. “It’s great that you found one so fast. What field is it in?”

“It pays well,” Derek told her. “That’s all that you care about, isn’t it?”

The faux-supportive look fell off of Laura’s face. “That’s not true,” she said sharply. “And it’s not fair.”

Her scent was laced through with anger and sadness, and Derek wrinkled his nose against it, his chest feeling tight and sore. Maybe that really wasn’t fair of him—Laura had always been there for him, taken care of him the best she could, tried so hard to be everything he needed—but what right did _she_ have to feel hurt when _he_ was the one getting tossed aside?

“Whatever,” he muttered through the clenching of his teeth. “I’m doing what you wanted. You won’t be burdened with your screw-up of a brother anymore.”

Laura’s grip on her purse went white-knuckled. “I never said you were a _burden._ ”

“You didn’t have to.”

“Jesus, Derek, I am trying to _help_ you.”

“Well, I don’t want your help! Why can’t you just leave me alone?”

Laura stared up at him for a long moment, very still even as her heart raced loud enough to beat against Derek’s ears. The anger had overcome the sadness in her scent. Then she stood up slowly and with all the dignity and grace her alpha status afforded her. She hooked her purse over her shoulder, smoothed down her skirt, faced Derek with her head held high.

“Fine, then,” she said. Her voice only shook a little. “Good luck with your job, Derek. Try not to fuck it up this time.”

The door slammed shut behind her loudly enough to make his neighbor pound on the wall in complaint, and Derek was left alone in his empty apartment.

* * *

Derek had expected to get a call. Or for Laura to show up in his bedroom without notice again. But he was left to suffer through his next hangover on his own. He had thought he might regret going out last night, but it had been that or sit around his apartment and hope the utilities company waited the one business day it would take for his payment to process before they shut off his lights.

Even if he had had no such worry, being alone wouldn’t have been an appealing prospect. He’d never been very good at “alone”. After Laura’s parting shot the night before, a drink and a fuck had been the only things on Derek’s mind. He’d even bought the first drink himself, for the sake of expediency. The fuck had been quick to follow, like it always was.

But Laura always called too. She wasn’t usually the type to hold grudges—not like Derek was—at least, not for long. Derek couldn’t remember the last time his sister hadn’t called him the morning after a big argument, whether to apologize or to guilt and needle Derek into apologizing.

By four in the afternoon when his headache had been sufficiently remedied, Derek was pretty sure that no such call was forthcoming this time. By eight, Derek had worked out as much as he could stand, ordered the grand luxury of takeout, and trolled reddit for far longer than was advisable. With nothing left to distract him, he found himself on google images. Before he could think better of it—or look too closely the impulse—he was typing “shibari” into the search bar.

Derek hadn’t bought it when Stiles had said that his rope-tying was more aesthetic than sexual, but the pictures that came up in this search proved Stiles right. They were easily twice as erotic as the ones in Stiles’ book, or at least more graphic. Women with their breasts bound up and purpled with the pressure, with limbs spread wide, contorted and held in poses of submission that made Derek’s palms sweat and his breath hitch.

He closed out of the tab in under ten seconds. Then he closed the laptop for good measure. If he’d wanted to look at porn, he would have looked up the normal kind, not... _this._ In fact, if he wanted to get off, he could just find someone to hook up with. It was still early yet, but not too early for Derek’s needs. He knew plenty of places to go at any hour of the day or night.

This time, he didn’t bother bringing his phone out with him. No one was going to be calling him anyway.

* * *

Derek made sure he was well hydrated before his next shoot with Stiles. It was a good thing that werewolf hangovers faded a lot faster than human ones did, because this wasn’t something Derek wanted to go into at anything less than his best. The last time had gone relatively well, that much was true, but the whole thing still made him nervous.

Stiles had a much longer rope this time, coiled up the same way as the last. His makeshift living room set was free of furniture and props again, just the black tarp and the mid-morning sun through the wide windows for lighting.

“Something a little different this time,” Stiles said gamely. “Another shirtless one, if that’s okay with you.”

Derek nodded, glad that the marks from his hook-up—late enough last night that it probably qualified as this morning—had disappeared completely by now. A small voice in the back of his mind wondered if they would’ve taken away from the aesthetic Stiles was going for here or added to it. Either way, he could still feel the tingle on his neck where the man’s teeth had sunk in, where he’d sucked until the blood pulsed hot under the skin to form a bruise he wouldn’t be around long enough to see heal.

Derek kept waiting for Stiles’ eyes to be drawn to the spot regardless, for Stiles to just _see_ it on him and know what he had been doing. He wondered if Stiles would judge him as harshly for it as he knew Laura did, whether she said it out loud or not.

He wondered why he cared.

“This one,” Stiles was saying, “will bind your hands behind your back and your upper arms to your sides. I’ve got safety shears on hand, like I always do, to cut you out quickly should you need me to for any reason. Does that sound good?”

Another nod.

“Cool. Then I’ll just put on some music and we can get started!”

More 80s music came on over the speakers, quickly turned down low. Stiles headbanged with obvious relish as he uncoiled his rope. It looked ridiculous, but the grin on his face kept it from being anything but dorky. If Derek hadn’t been so on edge, he might’ve had it in him to find it endearing.

He let Stiles move him into position: arms behind him, tucked up into the small of his back, each wrist clasped comfortably in the opposite hand. Stiles didn’t wrap his wrists immediately though. Instead, he reached all the way around Derek, chest warm and firm against Derek’s bare back, to bring the first loop of rope around the top of Derek’s chest. It rested just under his collarbone and crossed high on his biceps.

Stiles was talking again, explaining what he was doing in terms Derek didn’t know. Derek had a feeling Stiles had defined some of them already, but he wasn’t paying much attention to that. He couldn’t when the rope was coming back around for a second pass, right up against the first, and then a third and fourth, lower down, underneath his pecs. They weren’t tight so much as _snug,_ enough to keep his arms pinned in place but not enough to hurt.

He could _feel_ it, though. With every breath, he could feel the rope around him, pressing back against the pressure of his chest expanding, a constant reminder that he was caught. He didn’t have to think about holding his position anymore; the ropes did that for him. He found the tension leaking out of him bit by bit as Stiles’ voice and the music and the _shh_ of the rope sliding against itself all blended together in the background.

Derek could relax here and the ropes would keep him right where he needed to be. He didn’t need to worry right now, not about money or Laura or what she would think or if she was done with him for good this time. Not even about how it would be entirely his fault if she was. For the first time since he had fought with Laura, there were no racing thoughts in his head. Maybe for the first time in seven years.

The hot press of Stiles’ fingers found its way to Derek’s hands then. The rope was cool in comparison as it wound around his wrists, the tails brushing teasingly against the sensitive small of his back with every pass. Somehow the wrist cuff, cinched almost-tight, got tied into the chest wraps above. Stiles pulled it taut and Derek’s hands were dragged further up, out of where they’d rested comfortably to a place where Derek couldn’t have held them without the ropes’ help.

Like the last time, Derek’s fingers found the nearest line and gripped it tight.

“You doing all right there, big guy?”

It took a moment for Derek to realize that Stiles had stopped touching him, that he was finished tying and ready to shoot. It took a moment longer for the question to process.

“Yeah,” he finally managed. “Yeah, I’m fine. Sorry. Dozing off, I guess.” Or something like it. He didn’t feel tired, not really, but he didn’t feel truly awake either. He didn’t know how he felt besides _good._

“That’s okay,” Stiles said easily. “Let’s get you situated.”

Again, without the use of his arms, Derek needed some help making it to the floor. He leaned into Stiles’ touch, letting Stiles take most of his weight on the way down. He wasn’t kneeling this time. Instead he was settled down cross-legged at first, until Stiles nudged one leg upright. Derek’s jeans stretched uncomfortably tight across his crotch.

Derek flushed.

Stiles just chuckled. “Nah, dude, don’t worry about that,” he said with a vague wave of his hand, most of his attention still focused on getting Derek positioned at just the right angle. “I know I said all this is non-sexual, and it _is,_ but that doesn’t mean it’s not still a _sensual_ experience for a lot of people. Trust me, you are not the first model to pop a boner during a shoot. Isaac does it all the time. No big deal.”

There was no blip in his heartbeat. His scent stayed mild and clear, free of the tang of arousal or the bite of disgust. He didn’t pay Derek’s erection any mind at all as he gave him one more long look to check the staging and the angle of the light from the windows. He smiled at Derek and gave him a thumbs up.

Derek let out a breath. Then he breathed in deep again just to feel the bite of the rope.

His arousal didn’t fade during the shoot. Neither of them commented on it again, which was fine by Derek. It was hard to feel too embarrassed by it when his head was so empty. It was like all his thoughts had been scooped out and replaced with Stiles’ voice. If Stiles wasn’t going to condemn him for being turned on by all this, then why should he condemn himself? Stiles was the one in charge, after all. Derek was just here to do as he was told.

The time got away from him again. It felt like only minutes before Stiles was laying aside his camera and declaring them done. Another great shoot, he said as those nimble fingers of his plucked at the knot in between Derek’s shoulder blades. The tension on the rope holding his hands up disappeared and his shoulders ached with the sudden release of pressure. There was no pins and needles feeling—Stiles was very careful that there was never any loss of circulation—but the relief of free movement after so long constrained was a rush just shy of painful.

“Thank you again, Derek, for such good work,” Stiles told him as Derek dragged his shirt and jacket back on. “I’m really glad you decided to give this a shot despite your misgivings.”

Derek heard himself say, “Me too.” He thought maybe he even meant it.

Stiles clapped him on the back and put another check in his hands. Almost six hundred dollars this time. With this and the last payment, most of his rent would be covered.

It must have been that relief that had him riding so high as Stiles waved him out the door.

* * *

The feeling didn’t last. The walk home seemed both longer than usual and over in a blink, and the pungent New York brand of fresh air didn’t wake him up as well as it had the last few times he’d made it. He shivered despite his jacket and the lack of real chill, clammy hands stuffed deep in his pockets, and his head swam. By the time he reached his block, he felt like he might throw up, and not just because of the sudden nausea that overtook him.

What was _wrong_ with him? Stiles had hired him to do a job and here Derek was getting off on it. Literally _getting hard_ in the middle of a simple fucking photo shoot like a total pervert. It was so wildly unprofessional, and it was no wonder no one else had ever wanted to employ him for long if this was what he was like.

There was no reason for this to affect him so much anyway. He shouldn’t be _enjoying_ getting tied up. It shouldn’t make him feel so good, but it did. Obviously it did, or else he wouldn’t be fucking up Stiles’ photo shoots with his inability to control himself. How fucked up did that make him?

Sure, Stiles had said that it was okay, that Derek wasn’t the only one, but he was just being nice. There was no way Stiles was really just _fine_ with Derek’s wholly inappropriate reactions. What type of employer would be? It wasn’t supposed to be sexual, he had said so himself, more than once. Derek just couldn’t help himself from making it that way, he was that much of a slut.

This was _not_ what Laura had had in mind when she’d told him to get a job. Derek couldn’t even do this one thing right.

He couldn’t get his key in the lock either with how badly his hands were shaking. He almost dropped it twice before he finally got the door unlocked, and by then he was ready to just kick the door down and have done with it. He wanted so badly to curl up in his bed and disappear, but the shrill noise of his phone ringing stopped him.

Laura’s picture flashed on the screen, a slightly blurry selfie she had taken with his phone a few years ago while holding Derek at bay with her other hand as he tried to steal it back from her. The bright smile that had been on her face that day was a far cry from the strained mockery of it she had graced him with the last time he had seen her.

Derek swiped to deny the call and threw the phone on the couch, barely noticing when it bounced off and clattered across the floor instead. He pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes until they ached. He couldn’t seem to get a deep breath and the familiar walls felt like they were leaning in, pushing down on him.

All of a sudden, he couldn’t stomach the thought of crawling into bed alone like he had planned. Nothing but cold sheets and his own thoughts would be torture. What he needed was a distraction, heated skin against his, someone else’s words to drown out his own voice screaming at him and make him forget what a colossal screw-up he was.

It didn’t matter that it was barely starting to get dark, long before most bars got their evening crowds in, or that most bars wouldn’t have the sort of partners who could give him what he wanted right now. Derek knew exactly where he needed to go.

* * *

_The Cellar_ was a shitty hole in the wall bar, the kind of place that anyone worried about health code violations gave a wide berth to. The lights were dim and spent most of their time flickering half-heartedly. Anyone who leaned on the bar-top came away sticky and reeking of cheap beer. God knew what substances had graced the floors since the last time they’d been cleaned.

But no one who set foot inside did so for the ambiance.

 _The Cellar_ was also the sort of shitty hole in the wall bar where no one bothered to ask for ID, which was exactly why Derek had started going there, back when he and Laura had first gotten to New York. When he had been sixteen and traumatized, desperately craving something he couldn’t put a name to, and none of the other bars would let him in.

The bouncer here had just looked him over, taken in his round cheeks and wide eyes and too big ears, and ushered him inside with a hand low on his back. Derek had had his first free drink in his hands within minutes and no one had ever asked if he was old enough to have it. He had sucked his first dick that night too, and no one had asked then either.

He didn’t come here very often anymore. He’d long since lost the round cheeks and wide-eyed innocence that had made him so appealing to this particular crowd, that had made these men want to _take_ and _own_ and _break._ Now, with the muscles and the stubble and the resting bitch face that could send the toughest biker running for cover, no one ever assumed that he was there looking to get fucked himself, and Derek normally didn’t have the patience to deal with all the simpering twinks who wanted _him_ to buy _them_ drinks. There were plenty of other venues for him to find partners who didn’t remind him so much of himself.

But those other venues wouldn’t do tonight. They couldn’t guarantee him what this one could. He wasn’t looking for one of his regular hookups, something quick and a little dirty with some frat douche who would no-homo it to his friends later, or one of the junkies from the clubs flying high enough to not care who they were fucking or where or who could see. He needed something more than that, and he needed it from someone who wouldn’t stick around after he was finished.

Derek leaned back against the bar, hips canted forward to show off how tight his jeans were. They hung low enough on him to bare the jut of his hip bones, the defined vee and trail of dark hair beneath his navel. His tank top stretched obscenely over his chest and left his arms bare. He’d left his leather jacket at home; it didn’t fit with what he was advertising tonight.

Still, he had already had to turn away three hopefuls, young boys who had slunk up beside him to bat their eyelashes and lick their lips and call him _daddy._ Each one had twisted his already frayed nerves, but they hadn’t been too hard to shake off; there were plenty of daddies around for them to tempt. Derek kept his eyes on _them,_ throwing back shots and waiting for the right man to look his way.

It took way too long—far longer than it usually did, long enough for most of Derek’s shots to lose their edge—but he was being picky tonight. He didn’t move from his spot until he made eye contact with a muscle-bound man in a chain-studded leather vest who stood a full head above the companions he’d ridden in with. The man looked him over from across the bar, assessing, probably trying to figure out what someone like Derek was getting at, if he was trying to start a fight or issue a challenge.

Derek downed his latest shot, the rush of it making his head spin—for the moment, at least—and pushed away from the bar. He slunk through the crowd, twinks and bikers alike moving out of his way, until he could push in close to his chosen mark.

The man squinted down at him, still unconvinced. That was okay. Derek could simper and tempt with the best of them; he’d had years of practice, after all. All he had to do was duck his head, look up coquettishly, murmur _“please, daddy”_ with a flick of his tongue across his bottom lip.

Within a minute, Derek was being manhandled into a bathroom stall and shoved face first against the wall. He shuddered as the daddy pressed in close behind him, an enormous, overwhelming presence reeking of leather and sweat and motor oil, the liquor on his breath hot against Derek’s neck. His whiskers scratched along Derek’s skin, leaving red patches that would fade too soon, and Derek tilted his head to give him better access.

The leather daddy bit him, teeth sinking in _hard,_ and Derek gasped and went limp.

“That’s right,” the daddy rumbled against his ear. “That’s what you want, isn’t it? Pretty boy wants it hard.”

“Yes,” Derek breathed. “Please.”

The daddy laughed, low and mean, fingers digging into Derek’s hips. “Fucking slut.”

Derek whimpered. He pressed his overheated forehead into the cool plastic of the stall partition as heavy hands pawed at his jeans. They were frustratingly hard to remove, tight as they were, and they bit in painfully around his thighs. Still, he spread his legs as best he could.

“That’s right,” the daddy said again. “Show me that ass. That dirty hole. Fucking bitch, so eager for it. Want my dick that much? Want my fucking dick, whore?”

Derek bit out, “ _Please._ ” This was taking too long. His buzz was wearing off, the jittery anxious feeling rising in him again, and he needed this _now._ His fingers reached for something to hold onto, something to ground him, but there was nothing. He clawed uselessly at the wall and said, “God, just fuck me already, will you?”

A hand came down on the back of his neck, pinning him more tightly.

“Shut up,” the daddy growled. “Mouthy bitch, telling me what the fuck to do.” Fingertips dug into Derek’s ass, five sharp points of pain. “Just need a good dick in you.”

“Then fucking _give me one._ ”

In one sudden motion, Derek found himself yanked around. His knees hit the floor with a painful crack and for a split second, right as Derek looked up, he expected to see Stiles. The stray thought shocked him enough that when rough thumbs forced his mouth open, he didn’t think to breathe before a thick cock was shoved inside.

The daddy didn’t seem to care whether he breathed or not. He just held Derek’s head in place with a punishing grip on his hair and fucked his throat with all the force Derek had been looking for. There was no room to think or overthink when his head was swimming with the lack of oxygen.

The daddy groaned. “Pretty fucking mouth like yours is made for this. Fucking cocksucker lips.” He pushed in as deep as he could, burying Derek’s nose in his pubes, and ignored the way Derek gripped desperately at his thighs.

Derek gasped when he was finally allowed to pull off, coughing and swaying as he fought to draw air back into his starved lungs. Before the spots in his vision could fade entirely, he was back upright, face smashed against the wall again and his arms pulled back and up. One hot, callused hand held both of Derek’s wrists tight as the other dug in between Derek’s spread cheeks.

“Tight little hole. Good thing you got a dirty mouth, boy. Wet as a fucking pussy.”

As soon as the hand on his wrists was gone, Derek wanted it back. He didn’t know what to do with his arms and he hated it. He hated that he was longing for something to take that indecision away from him, to hold him in place so he didn’t have to worry about anything at all.

He hated that Stiles and his fucking rope could be on his mind at a time like this.

The burn of being breached wasn’t enough, not even with only his own spit as lube. The daddy’s cock was thick, at least, and he didn’t wait for Derek to adjust before burying himself to the hilt. If Derek had been human, it might’ve caused some real damage. Honestly, it might’ve caused damage anyway, but Derek was too used to that to notice or care. It would heal in a few seconds anyway, like it always did.

Besides, he _wanted_ it to hurt.

Derek didn’t really hear what he said next. Everything was a little fuzzy around the edges, a little distant, and his own words were no exception. But he definitely said something bratty because the daddy snarled and his next thrust was hard enough to rock the entire stall. Hard enough to make Derek’s brain white out for a few blissful seconds.

The pain of it was an absent sort of thing after that, just a fact and not anything that he could be too concerned with, like the slurs that rained down on him with every hot breath on his neck. It was nothing more than he deserved anyway. After all, he _was_ a dirty whore. He _was_ literally asking for it. He _was_ a filthy bitch begging for a dick to choke on and this right here _was_ where he belonged. This _was_ all he was good for. He’d already known that—Kate had taught him that lesson well—but knowing it wasn’t always enough. Some nights, he needed to really _feel_ it.

And if he rode out the rough fuck gripping tight to his own wrists, then at least he was too spaced out to realize it.

* * *

Derek was dragged out of sleep by the distant, shrill sound of his phone. A blind grope around his bedside table brought up nothing and the ringing was over before Derek’s mud-filled brain could remind him of why. He had thrown it on the couch the night before, he finally remembered. Then he’d gone out, gotten drunk, gotten fucked. Gotten even more drunk, if the pounding in his head fit to break his skull was any indication. He didn’t remember how he had gotten home.

The phone rang again. The noise dug into his ears even from a room over and Derek buried himself under a pillow to better ignore it. He wasn’t up for being berated by his sister when his everything hurt and he could still feel the stickiness of some stranger’s cum on his thighs.

Only, Laura wasn’t speaking to him. She was done with him, or so he had thought when she hadn’t called all of yesterday.

Clutching his head and fighting down a swell of nausea, Derek forced himself upright and stumbled his way toward the living room. He had to sit down on the floor to get to his phone—he was familiar enough with hangovers like this to know that bending over to reach it where it had fallen under the coffee table was a very bad idea—and by the time he had it in hand, the screen was flashing three missed calls and a voicemail, all from Laura.

Derek almost just turned his phone off; he wasn’t sure if he wanted to hear what she had to say. But he couldn’t do it.

He swallowed down the bile in his throat, leaned back against the foot of his couch, and pressed play on the voicemail.

 _“Hey, Derek,”_ it said in his sister’s voice. _“I guess you’re probably sleeping it off. Or maybe you’re at work! I don’t know. Doesn’t matter. Anyway, I just...wanted to call and say that I’m sorry. For what I said. I know I’ve been really hard on you lately, but I want you to know that I love you and I hope you’re okay. And good luck with your job, baby bro. Maybe give me a call back and let me know how it’s going.”_

Derek let his head fall back against the couch cushions as the message ended. Laura sounded so _tired,_ like she had run out of the energy it took to be mad at him and this worn thin disappointment was all that was left. Tears pricked at Derek’s eyes because _he_ had made her sound like that. His big sister was hurting and it was his fault, again, just like it always seemed to be.

And _fuck,_ it was almost one-thirty. He was supposed to be at Stiles’ for their next photo shoot in half an hour.

He could just not go. Even levering himself off the floor right now seemed like a pretty daunting task, and it wouldn’t be the first time he had blown something off in favor of nursing a hangover. But that was how he had _lost_ most of his other jobs, and he couldn’t do that again. Not if it would earn him another voicemail like that. He needed to prove that he could handle this—handle _something,_ at least—that he could support himself and stand on his own two feet. He needed to prove Laura wrong.

Or maybe he just wanted to make her proud of him.

Besides, he couldn’t leave Stiles hanging like that. Stiles had been nothing but good to him and he didn’t deserve for Derek to crap out on him halfway through the project. Derek had already done that to so many people so many times and he found that he really, _really_ didn’t want to add Stiles to that list.

Derek’s fingers flexed against his thigh. They were still sore from last night, the way he had grasped so hard at something that wasn’t there. He had only been tied a few times and yet he had already memorized the feel of it.

With a hard shake of his aching head, Derek forced himself off the floor. He needed about a gallon of water and a shower, but he could still make it to Stiles’ on time if he hurried. He could do this.

He had to do this.

* * *

Derek made it to Stiles’ on time. Barely. He let himself in at 1:59 just in time to see Stiles trip over what looked like a headboard that had been disconnected from its bed and leaned up against the wall of Stiles’ set. He didn’t hit the ground, but he did hop on one foot for a while as he cursed up a storm. The closing of the door drew his attention and he quickly righted himself, clearing his throat and tugging at his shirt as if that might make him less of a mess.

“Oh, hey,” he said. “Right on time, as per usual! Ready to get started? Do you want a drink or something? Ooh, do you need to _pee?_ The tie’s a little more complicated today, it’ll take a lot longer to get in and out of, so if you need to pee, then definitely do it now.”

Derek blinked at him; rehydrated from his hangover as he was, he was still exhausted and his brain did not want to process that many words all at one time. They sunk in eventually, at least, and he said, “Um. No, I think I’m okay.”

“Cool.”

Stiles stepped over the headboard with exaggerated care, shooting it a very dirty look in the process, and made his way over to the coffee table. There were three coils of rope this time, one long one and two shorter. He picked one of them up but didn’t unravel it yet, just toyed with the working ends.

“So I know we’ve been just doing torso stuff so far,” he said. “Since you were a little iffy on the nude examples in my portfolio. I was wondering if you’d rethought your position on that at all? Because the tie I’m hoping to use today _can_ be done over clothes, strictly speaking, if that’s what you need, but…”

But the grimace on Stiles’ face said that it really wasn’t what he was going for. This was Stiles’ project, something that he clearly had a _vision_ for, and a model who was too shy to wear the ties the way they were meant to be worn probably wasn’t a part of that vision.

Derek swallowed and said, “I can do it.” No one had ever accused him of being a shrinking violet. He had shoved his pants down in a public restroom the night before, for god’s sake. And he wasn’t going to be the reason that Stiles didn’t get the pictures he wanted.

He was glad he had made the time to shower, though, at least perfunctorily.

He tried to pay attention as Stiles walked him through the tie they would be using. It was definitely more complicated than the last two, if only because it was the first to go beyond chest and arms. This one would bind his arms to his sides, sort of similar to the one from the last shoot but with a diamond pattern instead of straight wraps, but it would continue down from there and bind his calves to his thighs as well.

Stiles assured him again that he would have safety shears on hand, just in case. A few snips and he could have Derek out in seconds, all he had to do was say the word. Derek nodded, already promising himself that that wouldn’t be necessary. He had made it through the other ties just fine, after all. There was no reason for this one to be any different.

Stiles didn’t watch Derek strip off, which Derek appreciated. He was busy getting the music running and fiddling with the settings on his camera, and he didn’t blink when he glanced over to find Derek just stepping out of his briefs. Why would he? He was a professional, Derek reminded himself. He had probably worked with dozens of nude models before. This was nothing new to him.

Derek wondered if any of Stiles’ other nude models had come in to work with the remnants of some stranger’s cum inside them, or if he was an outlier in that regard. The shower had washed away the streaks on his thighs, but he had been in a rush. He hadn’t had the time to be as thorough about it as he usually was and he was excruciatingly aware of that fact. It was probably just in his head—Stiles certainly didn’t seem to have noticed anything out of the ordinary—but Derek was sure that he could _feel_ it, sticky and persistent, marking him up from the inside. He was still sore from the fuck that had put it there.

But Derek didn’t want to think about that. Not here, not now. Now, there was 80s pop playing quietly over the speakers and sunlight streaming in through the windows and Stiles, guiding Derek to sit on the tarp with his knees up in front of him. Stiles’ hands were warm on Derek’s bare skin, firm and gentle as he moved Derek into position.

“Perfect,” he said. “Stay right there for me.”

Derek did. He stayed still as Stiles knotted the end of one of the shorter ropes around Derek’s ankle and began wrapping it around and around his bent leg. Once he reached the knee, he came back toward the hip, perpendicular to the spiral wrap, leaving a row of knots in his wake.

“Beautiful.”

Stiles’ voice was a low rumble in his chest, almost gravelly but still somehow smooth to Derek’s ears. And he was right. Derek hadn’t been in a position to really see the other ties he had worn so far, but he could appreciate this one. The contrast of clean white rope against the tan of his skin; the neat, even lines and uniform knots; the play of muscle as Derek flexed against the rope’s hold: he understood why Stiles wanted to capture it on film.

Stiles reached for the next rope. He guided Derek’s bound leg to lie against the floor, for balance and for better access to the other side. It had the side effect of exposing Derek more fully, but, again, Stiles wasn’t concerned.

“Next one’s up,” he said. “You’re doing great, Derek.”

Derek wasn’t sure if it was the words or the brush of Stiles’ knuckles over his inner thigh that made him shiver. The pull of the rope was a steady, repetitive _shh,_ and watching the pattern form was mesmerizing, in a way. The second leg binding didn’t take long to finish.

“Gorgeous,” Stiles said, fingertips tripping over Derek’s calf to check the tension of the wraps there. Like the day before, he didn’t comment on the way Derek’s cock was filling against his thigh. He just helped Derek get resettled onto his knees and drew his arms behind his back. Derek settled into the now familiar position with something close to relief. His eyes slid closed.

Stiles’ presence at his back was familiar too, warm and close as he held Derek’s wrists in his hands. It was nothing like when the leather daddy at the club had done the same thing. There was no violence to his movements, no sneer in his voice like Derek was lower than the dirt beneath his feet. And the things he kept _saying,_ over and over, so easily it was like he didn’t even notice the words were coming out of his mouth at all.

Beautiful, he said. Perfect. Gorgeous. _Good._

Derek clenched his fingers around the ropes and took a shuddering breath. He didn’t know why those words affected him so much. It wasn’t the kind of thing he was used to, the kind of thing he usually went out of his way to hear. It certainly wasn’t what he had wanted the night before. No, the leather daddy had given him exactly what he’d been looking for— _dirty bitch, tight hole, so fucking easy_ —because it was all true, every awful name he’d called Derek.

But Stiles.

Stiles sounded like he meant what he said. Like he really _believed_ it.

Derek breathed in against the rope. It didn’t let him fly apart. Every beat of his heart felt too big. His skin felt too tight, but not in a bad way. Each point of pressure held him together and his head was empty and light, like he might just float away if Stiles and his rope weren’t here to tether him to the ground.

He felt _good._ He let himself sink into the feeling as Stiles finished off the last few knots— _perfect, Derek, that's just right_ —and stepped back to retrieve his camera. Stiles’ instructions seemed like they came to him from a distance, floating into his ear on a tide of guitar riffs and drum solos, and Derek did his best to obey them. The shutter clicked— _that’s great, Derek_ —and clicked— _just like that, beautiful_ —and clicked.

And then he heard it. It had been years since the last time; Derek didn’t do much listening to the radio, and the 80s was more Laura’s decade than his. But even with all the time that had passed, even with his mind as fuzzy and slow as it was, it didn’t take more than a few bars for him to recognize it.

Red lips brushed against the shell of his ear, blonde hair swinging down to tickle against his neck. The scratch of fingernails across his bare stomach. A smoke-and-honey voice crooning, “Oh, can’t you see? You belong to me,” as if it was something romantic.

Derek couldn’t breath. Her scent clogged his nose, so vivid in his memory that he could taste it here and now, and the back of his neck prickled with the phantom sensation of her eyes on him. Watching him, just like the song said, always watching, and he _couldn’t breathe._

He tried to reach for his throat, to take hold of whatever was strangling him and rip it off, but he couldn’t. The simple cuffs around his wrists that had been so grounding and comforting just a minute ago were shackles now, trapping him in that voice and that scent. The ropes around his chest bit into his skin with every desperate gasp for air and Derek couldn’t tell if the room was spinning or if he was just swaying.

Distantly, he could hear his name being called. Stiles’ face swam into view, pinched and worried, but Derek couldn’t make out the words he was saying. The only words in his head were Kate’s and he needed to get _out._ He was bracing to rip his way through the ropes when he made out what was in Stiles’ hand: the safety shears.

Just a few snips, like Stiles had said earlier. A few snips and all the ropes slackened and fell away.

Derek didn’t breathe any easier. The tightness was in his chest, in his belly where Kate had left scratches as bloody red as Laura’s eyes had flashed the instant they knew their mother was dead, in his throat where he wanted nothing more than to _scream_ but couldn’t find the voice.

The cramping in his legs didn’t stop him from staggering to his feet. Neither did Stiles, still saying something that didn’t make it through the rushing pulse in Derek’s ears. His trembling fingers found his jeans and he managed to pull them on—he thought maybe Stiles reached out to steady him, but he couldn’t be sure—and he didn’t bother with anything else.

He just ran.

* * *

Derek slept for fourteen hours. He was finally forced awake by the phantom sensation of Kate’s fingernails digging into his back. There would be no more sleeping after that, not when the memory of her was around every corner.

He could drown it out, mostly. The method was tried and true, after all. One-fifty-one had never let him down before. If he took enough shots quickly enough, then Derek could fool himself into thinking that he wasn’t completely broken. That he hadn’t destroyed his relationship with the last of his family that was left alive and ruined the best (and only) job prospect he had had in a long time because of it.

So he drank until he forgot why he was drinking, and then he stumbled back home to pass out for as long as he could manage before Kate got her claws into him again. Fucking _christ,_ it had been seven years and he still couldn’t shake her. Goddamn pathetic.

He couldn’t even _fuck_ because of her. The one time he tried, he ended up almost breaking someone’s wrist because the guy didn’t like that Derek changed his mind before the main event; he hadn’t been able to get Kate’s voice out of his head. The guy had stormed off slurring something about calling the cops and Derek had thrown up a half dozen shots of jäger in the alley behind the bar.

So he slept alone, sometimes drunk enough to actually rest. He bought his own drinks for once and flinched away from wandering hands he would usually have taken advantage of. He let his phone battery run down and didn’t plug it back in for three days.

By the time he did, late morning on a Tuesday as the last of the previous night’s alcohol worked its way through his system, he was greeted with eight missed calls from his sister. With that many calls made and ignored, it was a miracle that she hadn’t stormed his apartment by now. Unless she just didn’t care enough anymore. Enough to call, sure, but not enough to take time out of her work day. Derek couldn’t blame her for that; he’d been the one to push her away, over and over again.

Yet, she had still called. And she wasn’t the only one. Alongside the eight missed calls from Laura, Derek also had no fewer than _six_ emails from Stiles.

For a long minute, Derek couldn’t bring himself to click on them, just staring at the notifications. In the bright morning light, as sober as he had been in days, he wasn’t sure if he could handle reading what Stiles had to say to him right now. He had fucked up everything, like he always did. He’d had a good thing going with Stiles, and now he had freaked out over nothing, ruined Stiles’ ropes, fucked up his shoot, and completely skipped out on the last two sessions they’d had scheduled.

There was no way that Stiles wanted anything to do with him anymore. These emails were Stiles graciously informing him that their business was finished and Derek’s presence was no longer required on his set, and oh, would Derek kindly reimburse him for the three lengths of rope he’d had to ruin because Derek couldn’t keep his shit together?

But Derek wouldn’t be able to blame Stiles for all of that any more than he could Laura for staying away. Stiles had been _good_ to him and Derek had fucked him over. He owed Stiles this much, at least.

He clicked on the first email.

He had to read it three times before he could convince himself his eyes weren’t playing tricks on him, or that he wasn’t still wasted or dreaming or too exhausted to function.

Derek wasn’t fired. At least, not in this email. In fact, there was no real mention of his employment status at all, and no beratements either. Stiles just asked if he was okay. He asked what went wrong. He said he was sorry.

 _Stiles_ said that _he_ was sorry.

And he said it again, in the next email, and the next. Derek had to stop and rub his eyes until he saw stars and his growing headache forced him to leave off, but the words were still there, staring up at him and making no sense at all because Stiles had no reason to be apologizing in the first place.

Each email was shorter than the last, and more urgent. The last one simply said: _Please respond. Let me know that you’re alright. Derek, please, just answer me, okay? I’m really worried about you._

Derek’s throat was tight and his eyes stung. He couldn’t make himself look away, even if he didn’t understand. He read and re-read it until his sister’s picture leapt up to blot it out. The vibration of an incoming call startled Derek into dropping the phone completely. It bounced twice on the mattress, ending up half covered by the tangled sheets, and kept ringing.

Hands shaking, Derek rolled onto his back, stared at the ceiling, and let it ring through. It wasn’t until the beep of an incoming voicemail sounded that Derek could bring himself to pick the phone back up. He squeezed his eyes shut as Laura’s voice came across.

 _“I was kind of hoping ninth time would be the charm,”_ she said in that fake-bright way of hers. _“Apparently not. That’s fine, that’s— No, it’s not fine. You can’t just—”_ Even through the shitty speakers, Derek could hear the way she swallowed. _“It’s been days, Derek. You haven’t answered any of my calls. I know you don’t want me butting in right now, and maybe you’re just mad and avoiding me, or super busy with work, or whatever, but I need to at least know that you’re alive. Okay? Can you give me that? I’m just...I’m worried. I’m really worried about you. Please call me.”_

Derek dropped the phone and threw an arm over his face. It still wasn’t enough to muffle the sound of him finally giving into the tears that threatened to choke him. He didn’t deserve this from her, not after everything he had said and done. He deserved low blows and slamming doors, not nine calls in three days and that quite, desperate _please._

He didn’t deserve to have anyone worry over him, not Laura, and _especially_ not Stiles. Where did he get off sounding as concerned about Derek as his fucking sister? Derek was just some random guy he’d hired over the internet to do a job literally anyone could do, and probably do better. They’d known each other for all of a week. He couldn’t possibly care about Derek that much.

And yet.

_I’m sorry, Derek. Please respond. I’m really worried about you._

Derek dragged his hands over his face, smearing the tear tracks all over the place, and took a deep breath. Then he rolled himself out of bed despite the upheaval it caused his stomach; he couldn’t remember the last time he had eaten a real meal. About four days ago, if he had to guess.

He needed food, and water, and a shower. And he needed to talk to Stiles. He needed to set things straight with him, because it wasn’t Stiles’ fault and he couldn’t let Stiles keep blaming himself for it like he obviously was. It was Derek’s fuck-up and if he couldn’t fix it, then he could at least take responsibility for it.

Then, when things with Stiles were settled and done with—for better or for worse—he could worry about Laura. He didn’t know how he was going to tell her that he was out of a job, _again,_ or how he would even be able to look her in the eye, but he couldn’t avoid her forever. Just one more day.

* * *

It was noon by the time Derek made it to Stiles’ building, and a quarter after by the time he could bring himself to knock on the door. He could hear the low chatter of a television from inside, the even lower thrum of a heartbeat if he strained for it. There was a moment of shuffling—and a few thumps that were Stiles tripping over something, if he had to guess—before the door was pulled open.

Stiles sort of looked a mess. His hair was all over the place and there were holes in the hem of his over-large t-shirt. It all made him look younger than the eager, confident, professional photographer that Derek was used to seeing, and far more tired.

The pall of exhaustion disappeared in an instant, though, when he laid eyes on Derek.

“Dude, what the _fuck?_ ”

Derek stepped back from the outburst, all his carefully planned words evaporating on his tongue. “What?”

“You just ran off and disappeared into the fucking ether,” Stiles cried, hands flying around him. “Didn’t even take your fucking shoes! _God,_ I thought you were _dead_ or something!”

“I was—” Derek tried to say, but it was probably a good thing that Stiles cuz him off because he had no idea what was going to come next.

“You can’t just do that, man,” Stiles went on with a vehement shake of his head. “Go off the grid like that? No word at all? Jesus, Derek, you scared me half to death.”

Derek mouthed soundlessly into the expectant pause, too thrown to even think about responding coherently. Stiles rolled his eyes. In a second, Derek had been dragged into the apartment and pushed down onto the big leather couch. It smelled overwhelmingly like its owner, who did not sit down. Stiles paced instead, just a restless little back and forth that barely qualified as real pacing.

“Are you okay, though?” he demanded around the thumbnail in his mouth. “You look okay, but are you, like, _okay?_ Do you need anything? I’ve got coffee and tea and juice. Oh, and your clothes, that you left here, just let me get—”

Derek’s shirt, jacket, and shoes were deposited on the coffee table, shortly followed by a bottle of water, even though Derek hadn’t responded to Stiles’ inquiry about drinks. Stiles immediately disappeared into what Derek assumed was a kitchen and Derek heard a clunk, running water, the click of a stove top being turned on. Apparently Stiles was making him tea.

It was...a lot. _Stiles_ was a lot, all bluster and noise and movement, but underneath it all was the sourness of anxiety, streaked through Stiles’ lighter natural scent and wrapping Derek up in the evidence of what he had refused to accept from the emails alone: Stiles cared. He cared a lot, if the insistent caretaking was anything to go by, or the way Stiles couldn’t seem to stop touching him. Anytime Stiles came within a foot of him, there was a hand on his arm, fingers brushing across his back, knuckles grazing his shoulder.

Derek didn’t shrink away from any of it. He wasn’t sure he could have if he’d tried.

When Stiles ran out of things to fiddle with in the kitchen, stuck waiting impatiently for the water to boil, he strode back into the living room to give Derek another critical once-over. He opened his mouth but Derek beat him to it.

“Stiles, I’m fine,” he said. “I swear, I’m fine now. You don’t need to do all of this. I just— I’m sorry that I—”

Abruptly, Stiles dropped down to sit on the coffee table.

“No, Derek, don’t do that,” he said heavily. “ _I’m_ the one who should be sorry. I knew this was all new to you and you were on the fence about it, and I moved too fast with it.” He ignored the shake of Derek’s head and insisted, “I didn’t keep a close enough eye on you, or check in often enough. I clearly pushed you way outside your comfort zone and I should’ve known better. I can’t blame you for taking off, and I wouldn’t have blamed you if you had never come back because I—”

“It was the song.”

Stiles looks up at him, brow furrowed. “Um. What was what now?”

Derek bit his tongue, fingers flexing against the leather beneath him. This wasn’t something that he had much experience talking about—or any experience at all, honestly. He hadn’t even told _Laura_ about Kate, not any part of it—but he couldn’t let Stiles keep smelling like that. Like _guilt._ It was so wrong.

So Derek forced his mouth open and said again, “The song that was playing. I just...really hate that song.”

It was a lame excuse, even if “hate” didn’t _begin_ to cover it, but Stiles was peering at him through narrowed, considering eyes. The intensity of it had Derek shifting in his seat, leather squeaking intrusively.

“It wasn’t anything that you did,” he said. “There was this woman that I…” Let creep into his head, twist him up inside, use and discard him like he was nothing, take everyone he cared about away from him. “...dated, I guess. That was, um. _Our song,_ sort of.”

At least, that was what Kate had told him. It had come on one afternoon, the shitty motel radio turned up to block out the ambient noise of all the other illicit couples getting their afternoon delight so they could pretend they weren’t one of them. Kate had laughed, throaty and charming, and curled around Derek from behind to murmur the lyrics into his ear.

It had seemed romantic at the time, the thought of being _owned_ by her. She had smelled so satisfied then and he had been stupid enough to think it was because she loved him.

She had never given a damn about him, not beyond what physical pleasure she could get out of him before her mission was completed. A few good fucks had been all he was good for to Kate. Then his family was gone, all of them wiped out in one awful night, and so was she, disappeared before the farce of an investigation was even closed. And she was still out there somewhere, going about her life as if she hadn’t ruined his, maybe biding her time until she could come back and finish the job.

_Every move you make, every breath you take, I’ll be watching you._

But Stiles was the only one watching him now. “Bad breakup, huh?” he asked, though something in his tone didn’t match the flippancy of the question.

Derek’s jaw clenched. He could almost smell the smoke.

Stiles’ face darkened. “Bad everything, then, I guess.”

Derek looked away. He kept his eyes on the floor as he heard Stiles’ sniff, the rustle of Stiles rubbing his hands over his thighs, the shuffle of his feet. There was anger in the air, deep and pungent, and it burned at Derek’s nose. He didn’t look up until Stiles let out a long sigh.

“Okay,” he said simply.

He still smelled angry, though.

“It wasn’t you,” Derek repeated. “It was just my bullshit and I’m sorry. I ruined your shoot.”

“Ruined…?” Stiles huffed out something like a laugh, scent clearing a bit. “No, Derek, you didn’t ruin anything! I mean, yeah, things kind of went a little sideways at the end there, but I already had plenty of usable shots by then. I don’t know if you know this or not, but you are extremely photogenic.”

He winked. His pink lips curved up into a smile and, unbelievably, Derek found himself mirroring it, just a bit.

“Your ropes, though,” Derek had to point out. He didn’t remember all that much from that afternoon, not clearly, but he distinctly recalled the ropes being cut to pieces.

Stiles just shrugged, kicking his feet out in front of him until they knocked into Derek’s. “Nah, don’t worry about that,” he said easily. “They’re really not expensive. I’ve got plenty of spare rope and I can always order more. And besides, every rigger has to be prepared to cut their ropes. That’s why the safety shears are a requirement. Scenes go wrong sometimes, that much is inevitable.”

He reached out and patted Derek on the knee.

“Trust me, Derek,” he said. “You are not the first sub I’ve ever had to cut out. It’s no big deal.”

The whistle of the kettle in the other room sounded before Stiles’ words could really sink in. Stiles hopped up to make the tea, leaving Derek to stare after him. He didn’t seem to have noticed what exactly he had said—he had always referred to Derek as a model before now—but the word “sub” lodged itself in Derek’s brain.

He had never thought of himself like that, as a _sub._ Not that he’d ever _tried_ to; he had never really had contact with any sort of BDSM scene, and no one who knew him even a little bit would describe him as a submissive personality type. In fact, most people would probably call him aggressive. He’d gotten into more fights than he could count over the last few years, and Laura could vouch more than anyone that he would never be the first to back down from a challenge.

Derek’s kink illiterate mind stumbled over the term, stuck on the mental image of someone shy and delicate and passive. That wasn’t him. He was always the one _pushing,_ for better or for worse, always demanding something from his partners. He wasn’t even sure if the kind of sex he usually had qualified as kinky or if it was just fucked up. He only knew that it didn’t fit with what little he knew about domination and submission in the formal sense. _He_ didn’t fit.

But then he remembered how _good_ all of this with Stiles felt. Being tied up, feeling safe and secure with the rope holding him together. Obeying Stiles’ instructions, the relief of not having to make any decisions for himself because Stiles would make them for him. The rush of warmth that came with the kind words, the encouragement, the _praise_ that Stiles had offered him. He couldn’t deny anymore that he wanted all of that.

As wrong-footed as it made him feel, if that was what being a sub really was, then Derek couldn’t exactly tell Stiles that he was wrong.

A blanket came down around Derek’s shoulders, crooked and still half-folded. Derek looked up to see Stiles trying to balance two steaming mugs and a package of cookies with one hand and straighten the blanket with the other. Unsurprisingly, it wasn’t going well. Before Derek could offer to help, Stiles was skirting the couch with a roll of his eyes to dump the cookies on the coffee table, then hurrying back to get the blanket settled properly. One of the mugs was in Derek’s hands a second later.

“You looked cold,” Stiles said by way of explanation. “I know it gets chilly in here. It’s the big windows—not well insulated! Tea’s hot, though, be careful. And cookies! Or do you want something else? Are you hungry? I’ve probably got real food somewhere.”

“No, Stiles, this is…” Way too much, Derek wanted to say. More than he deserved. Overwhelming. _Wonderful._ “...fine.”

“Cool, cool. And I blocked that song.” Stiles settled back down right where he was, uncaring that he was still sitting on a piece of furniture not made for sitting on. He immediately ripped open the cookies and stuffed one in his mouth. “On Pandora,” he clarified, only a little muffled. “I downvoted that song you hate. So we don’t have to worry about it coming up again on any of my stations.”

“Oh,” Derek said blankly. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Yes, I did,” Stiles told him. “Is there anything else I should maybe know about, moving forward? Other songs you need me to avoid, that kind of thing?”

“Moving forward?”

Stiles frowned at Derek’s confusion. “Yeah,” he said slowly. “With the other shoots. We had two more scheduled.”

“You still—” Derek’s heart kicked in his chest. “—want me? Even after I ran out on you?”

Stiles looked at him like he was crazy.

“Derek, you had a panic attack,” he said. “What, did you think I was going to fire you for having some kind of PTSD flashback or whatever? I’ve had my fair share of panic attacks, dude. I know how much they suck. I would be the biggest dick in the world to blame you for that.”

When Derek didn’t immediately respond—he was having a little trouble processing the fact that anyone could be this understanding, this forgiving of him—Stiles set aside his tea and cookies and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, to make sure that Derek looked him in the eye.

“Of course I still want you,” he said. “You’ve been _perfect_ so far, Derek, and your pictures are absolutely stunning. They’re everything I wanted for this project and more. And besides,” he added, a bit of pinkness creeping into his cheeks. He licked his lips. “It kind of seemed like you might be...enjoying it. This. A little. I mean, before the panic attack, anyway.”

Derek’s cheeks went hot too.

“I don’t mean, like, in an _inappropriate_ kind of way or anything!” Stiles blurted out. “Just, like— You were so put off by it at the start, you know? It kind of freaked you out, but then you tried it and it, like, wasn’t terrible, and it just seemed like maybe you—”

Derek cut him off before he could pull a muscle backpedaling so hard. “It’s not terrible.” He almost said more, that it was the least terrible thing he’d done in years, but he couldn’t get the words past his lips, so he had to leave it at that.

Stiles seemed to understand anyway. He smiled again, at least. He had a really nice smile, and his brown eyes were warm and bright, and he wasn’t mad at Derek at all. He still thought that Derek was perfect, despite what he had done.

Maybe Derek didn’t ruin _everything._

The flutter in his gut was as frightening as it was unfamiliar, but it was hard not to get his hopes up when this whole thing looked like it might actually work out. Nothing had worked out for him in so long. But Stiles was grinning, smelling warm and pleased, and he passed Derek a cookie with a teasing waggle of his eyebrows, and there was nothing Derek could do but take it from him.

“So,” Stiles said, mouth full again. “Are we back in business?”

Derek chewed his cookie through one last moment of indecision, the cruel little voice in the back of his head leaping up to insist that this would end badly no matter what, that it would only hurt more the deeper he got. The voice sounded like Kate. It always did.

“Yeah,” Derek said. “Yeah, we are.”

* * *

Derek had Stiles’ phone number now. Stiles had insisted—“If sending an email is too much of a hassle for you, then maybe try texting. You do know how to text, don’t you? It’s these little buttons right here, see, I’ll show you.”—and honestly, Derek hadn’t put up any fuss about it. His contacts list was sparse, to say the least. Just Laura, a few of his more regular hookups, and one number that he did his best to pretend wasn’t there at all.

He never answered calls from that number, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to delete it either. They had mostly stopped calling him anyway. Laura was a safer bet.

Laura, who was sitting on Derek’s couch again when he got home.

Derek had an armful of his sister before he could even register her presence, her arms tight around his neck and her hair in his face working together to nearly suffocate him.

“Glad to know you’re not dead in a ditch from alcohol poisoning, you complete jackass.”

Her words were harsh, but her scent was a veritable tidal wave of worry and relief. Derek breathed it in and wrapped shaking arms around Laura’s waist. She tightened her grip on him and, for once, he didn’t protest it. Thinking back, he couldn’t remember the last time they had hugged like this. Too long ago.

“You know that’s not even possible for a werewolf,” he pointed out.

Laura pinched his side but didn’t let go yet. “Yeah, well, I was really starting to think you would manage it somehow.”

Derek cringed; he deserved that. Especially now, after the last few days. Laura had every right to be angry with him. And yet she was still here, holding him close and petting his hair like their mother used to do. She still loved him, no matter how much he had fucked up.

He tucked his nose into his sister’s hair and breathed deep.

When Laura finally pulled away, her eyes were red and bright, but there were no tears on her cheeks. She wasn’t a crier, no matter how upset she was. Mom had been the same way. Instead, she sniffed hard, put her hands on her hips, and said, “Goddamn it, Derek, don’t you _ever_ do that to me again, do you hear me? You can go on all the benders you want, lord knows I can’t stop you, but you damn well better _call me_ or else I swear to god, I will—”

“I’m sorry.”

Derek’s words brought Laura up short. She looked so taken aback, Derek was almost insulted. He didn’t have the right to that, though, not when her shock was entirely justified.

Derek ran both his hands over his face, feeling suddenly _so tired._ He was tired of putting that look on Laura’s face, that sour twist in her scent. He was tired of fighting with her and knowing he had no one to blame for it but himself.

“I’m sorry, Laura,” he repeated. “I’m sorry that I didn’t call. I’m sorry for what I said. I’m sorry for a lot of things.”

That last part came out shakier than he’d intended. Truer too, for more reasons than Laura would ever know.

Still, all of Laura’s bluster melted away. She didn’t cry, and she didn’t hug him again, but she did take hold of his hand and pull him over to the couch. She sat beside him, close enough for their shoulders to press together, and tangled their fingers together.

“Derek, I just want you to be okay,” she said. “I’m not being mean because I like being mean to you.”

“No, I know that,” Derek put in. He had never thought that. It wasn’t _mean,_ anyway. Just because the things she had said and done had hurt him didn’t mean that she wasn’t right. Really, it was only _because_ she was right that they hurt so much. He couldn’t keep going like he’d been going. She had just recognized it first.

Laura squeezed his hand. Derek squeezed back. She smiled and, for the first time in a long time, it looked genuine.

“So,” she said, drawing it out obnoxiously. “How’s that job of yours going? If it’s still going, I mean,” she tacked on hurriedly. “After the—you know.” She cut herself off, making a face.

The giant bender and being completely out of contact for three days, she meant. As much as it stung, Derek couldn’t fault her for asking. He had lost plenty of other jobs the same way, after all. He would probably have lost this one too, if Stiles had been even a tiny bit less considerate. He would’ve deserved it.

“It’s still going,” he said.

Laura relaxed. “Tell me about it, then. You never even told me what it was.”

Derek ducked his head against a sudden flare of embarrassment. “You’re going to laugh at me.”

Laura opened her mouth, indignation written all over her face, but it only took a raise of Derek’s eyebrow for her to close it again. “I will not laugh,” she promised with an eye roll.

Derek didn’t believe her in the slightest. Still, he braced himself and said, “Modeling.”

Laura’s face lit up and her lips pressed together in that way that meant she absolutely wanted to laugh, but not a single sound escaped. Derek was honestly impressed. After a few seconds of getting herself under control, Laura cleared her throat.

“What, uh. What kind of modeling?” she asked, with an admirably straight face.

Derek hesitated. “It’s a sort of…independent photography project,” he said, as vaguely as possible. “This guy is trying to beef up his portfolio, maybe sell some pictures. I found him on craigslist. It’s not a permanent thing, obviously, but it’ll cover me for a month or two while I look for something else.”

Not that he had looked for anything else yet. But he was going to. Soon, definitely.

“Sounds like fun,” Laura said. “And how is it going with this guy?”

“Stiles,” Derek provided. “His name is Stiles, and he’s really…nice.”

It wasn’t until he caught the inquisitive tilt of Laura’s head that he realized that wasn’t exactly what she had asked. Fuck.

“ _They’re_ nice,” he hurried to say. “The photo shoots, they’re going really well.” Laura tilted her head the other way. “I mean, Stiles is nice too, I guess! He’s a great photographer and it’s obvious that he knows what he’s doing and is passionate about it. His pictures are beautiful, you should—”

He stopped himself before he could say “you should see them” because there was no way he was ever letting Laura see any of the photos Stiles had taken of him so far. He couldn’t think of anything else to say, though. At least, not anything that would take away that pursed-lipped, narrow-eyed, analyzing look on her face. So he just shut his mouth and clenched his jaw to keep it that way.

The look didn’t go away. In fact, it got even worse, Laura’s lips quirking up at the edges. That usually meant that a monumental amount of teasing was on the way, and sometimes Derek was okay with that. Sometimes he could revel in it and throw it back at her, and they would both laugh themselves silly, but this wasn’t one of those days. Maybe it was that he was still shaking off the remnants of his binge—and the flashback that had kicked it off, and the fights that had led him there—but he felt too raw around the edges for that.

It must’ve shown on his face because, for once, whatever Laura was thinking didn’t come out of her mouth. The teasing grin faded into something softer. She squeezed his hand again.

“Well, for what it’s worth,” she said, “I’m glad that things are going well. And that Stiles is _nice._ You deserve to have nice people in your life, Derek.”

Derek had to look away with a weak chuckle. “Especially when they pay me, right?”

“Sure, honey, let’s go with that.”

Derek frowned, but Laura just pressed a kiss to Derek’s cheek and pushed herself off the couch, her hand sliding out of his almost reluctantly. “And speaking of getting paid,” she said. “I’ve got work of my own to do, so I’ll leave you alone.”

Laura picked up her jacket from the home it had found on Derek’s coffee table, shrugged it on, and hitched her purse up over her shoulder before turning back to Derek one more time.

“I love you,” she said simply. “And I hope things keep going well for you and Stiles. With your photo shoots, I mean.”

She was closing the door softly behind her before Derek could think of anything to say in response. He was still stuck on that last comment of hers.

_You deserve to have nice people in your life, Derek._

Stiles _was_ nice. He was nice, and caring, and funny, and capable, and he had a really nice smile, and _fuck._

Derek dropped his head into his hands. It had been so long since he had actually been _attracted_ to someone that he barely even recognized the feeling for what it was.

He wasn’t picky about the people he slept with because it was never about what they looked like. It wasn’t about them at all, but about what they were willing to do to him if he pushed them to it. It had been years since Derek had looked at a person and thought about _them_ in any context other than sex and if they could give him what he needed.

What he had thought he needed.

But when he thought about Stiles, it wasn’t anything like that. It was the smoothness of his voice, the gentleness of his hands, the way his eyelashes fanned across his cheeks, the crinkle at the corner of his eyes when he smiled at Derek. He hadn’t had thoughts like this since Paige. Since Kate.

Derek shoved himself up off the couch. His first instinct was to make a run for the door, for the bar down the street, for the first big man who leered at him the right way. But he didn’t do that. He _couldn’t_ do that, not now. He checked his kitchen instead—yes, Laura had brought groceries with her because she was nothing if not predictable—and set about attempting to cook something. Anything to keep himself busy.

These stupid _feelings_ didn’t matter. Derek had just found someone that he might be able to call a friend, someone who put up with him and was patient with him (and paid him), and there was no way that Derek was going to push his luck here. He wasn’t going to risk ruining a good thing with his fucked up, traumatized bullshit. He was going to be professional and friendly and that was it.

Besides, Stiles didn’t look at him that way anyway.

* * *

Derek was early for his next shoot. Not by a lot, just a couple of minutes, but he wasn’t going to risk being late when Stiles was already giving him a second chance with this whole project. He wasn’t doing anything to jeopardize it.

Stiles tripped over something in his haste to get the door again, appearing winded and disheveled but unconcerned. Derek got the impression it was par for the course for him.

As clumsy and thoughtless as he was with himself, Stiles was nothing but considerate with Derek. He always had been, but now it was like he had turned the dial up to eleven. He asked three times in under five minutes if Derek was really okay with doing another nude tie, nodding fit to make his head fall off when Derek reassured him that he was and then quadruple checking his Pandora to make absolutely sure that song wouldn’t pop up. The tie Stiles wanted for today would be more decorative than restrictive, he said, but he still wanted Derek to be as comfortable as possible.

His concern was almost sweet. Derek had to bite back a smile, feeling warm all over despite his nakedness, and _that_ might be a bit of a problem. Being naked with a stranger behind a camera was one thing; being naked with a man he knew and actually _liked_ was another entirely.

But that didn’t matter, Derek reminded himself. The fact was, they _were_ here in a professional capacity. He was here to do a job for Stiles, and him being excruciatingly aware of Stiles in the most embarrassing way did not change that. He absolutely could not allow himself to slip off into whatever rope-and-Stiles-induced fog he had found himself in after the last few sessions, not now that it was personal.

Derek might have had some heretofore unrealized submissive leanings, but he was not Stiles’ sub and Stiles was not his Dom. Stiles wasn’t his anything.

Derek kept that thought firmly in his mind when the ropes came out. The tie was an intricate one, almost a latticework across his chest and stomach—a reassuring pressure on each breath Derek took, he fought not to notice—but Stiles’ hands were quick and sure with every knot.

“Where did you learn all of this anyway?” Derek asked.

Stiles paused in his tying to glance up at him, probably surprised; Derek had never spoken during this part of the process, usually too busy sinking into the sensation of it and getting lost. Derek kept his eyes open this time, though, and Stiles picked back up without comment.

“Got introduced to it through my best friend’s girlfriend in college,” he said as he pulled the knot through and laid the next line over Derek’s shoulder. “Kira—she’s the first model in my portfolio over there.”

The striking Asian women, long black hair draped just so to preserve a sliver of modesty.

“Shibari is a Japanese art form, originally,” Stiles went on. “She’d come across mentions of it while doing some research into her heritage. The three of us went to a workshop on it at the local dungeon and it was so fascinating, you know? To watch them make these beautiful patterns, like weaving, but on people.” He shook his head. “I was hooked from the start.”

Fascinating was right. Derek watched the rope twist and dance under Stiles’ direction, doing his best to focus on the sight of it rather than the feeling.

“And your friend,” he said. “He’s cool with you photographing his girlfriend naked?”

“What makes you think it wasn’t his idea?” Stiles winked. “But more importantly, what makes you think I haven’t done the same to Scott?”

Derek must have looked scandalized or something because Stiles laughed. It was bright and loud and it made Derek’s heart do something stupid and ridiculous that it hadn’t done in a long time. Once his mirth died down, Stiles wiped at his streaming eyes and returned to his tying with only the occasional chuckle.

“Scott isn’t as into all this as Kira and I are,” he said, “and I’m the only one dumb enough to try and make a living off it, but he’s still down to scene with Kira sometimes or help me out with a shoot. They even did a couple’s shoot for me once! I got them all wrapped up in each other, literally tied together. It was super fun and the photos turned out really evocative. Those were the first prints I ever sold.”

Stiles had said that before, back when they first met up, that he wanted to spice things up so that he could sell more of his photos. Derek asked now what he’d thought then:

“Where do you sell this kind of thing?”

Stiles shrugged, passing behind Derek to secure the current working line between his shoulder blades and then swinging around to the front again.

“Here and there,” he said. “Magazines, websites, private collectors, that sort of thing. Some specifics were mentioned in the original listing.” His fingers stopped moving. “Which you didn’t read, did you?” His eyes went wide, nearly alarmed at the prospect that Derek hadn’t realized the purpose of these explicit photos and might balk.

“That’s fine,” Derek hastened to say. “I’m not shy.”

Stiles deflated with a gusty sigh of relief. He tugged at his rope to pick up the slack he’d let creep into his design and reminded Derek, “You were at first. Nothing like Isaac, though! It took me three months to convince him to model for me at all, and another two weeks to get him to believe the pictures we took were any good. He’s been modeling for me for over a year and he _still_ thinks I’m pulling his leg about him being the third shot in my portfolio.”

Derek was also pretty sure he remembered Stiles naming Isaac as the other model who got hard sometimes during their shoots, not due to any attraction between him and Stiles but just the sensation of being tied. He wondered if Isaac reacted to it the way he did, if he floated off into a pleasant nothing or if it really was just the physical stimulation of it.

Derek was only at half mast this time, at least, and his head was clear. His hands were free in this design, hanging loose at his sides while Stiles tied decorative rope ladders up his arms; that might have had something to do with it.

Stiles gave the same treatment to his legs next, wrapping rope around and around before trailing knots back down the other way. He didn’t bat an eye at kneeling before Derek, or at having Derek’s crotch in his face while he worked. Derek raised his eyes to the ceiling—it had been a very long time since anyone had knelt for _him_ instead of the other way around, and he did not trust himself not to react to the sight of Stiles in that position—and cast around for another question to ask.

He prompted Stiles to tell him more about Scott, his best friend for life who worked as a veterinarian on the other side of the city. Stiles talked about his other regular model, Lydia, who was such a Dom that Stiles still marveled that she ever let him tie her in the first place. Apparently she had a rope bunny of her own but wasn’t interested in sharing him with Stiles’ camera. He told stories about his dad and the weird shit he saw on the beat, Scott’s mom and her weird patients, the flirting between the two of them that they thought their sons didn’t notice.

Stiles laughed a lot. At his own jokes, mostly, or over the fond memories he was relating. He laughed at Derek too, when Derek couldn’t hold back a smart comment. If pressed, Derek might admit to being more vocal than he was used to being in hopes of hearing that bright sound again. It was infectious.

For such a complex tie, it didn’t take as long as Derek would’ve expected, or Derek was so caught up in talking to Stiles that he didn’t notice the time passing. Before he knew it, Stiles was stepping back with a satisfied nod and snatching up his camera.

The actual picture-taking portion of the session turned out to be much more awkward without the comfy haze, but Stiles was all business, and that helped. He gave the same small directions that he always had, posing Derek this way and that, moving him from position to position since he had full range of motion for once.

He still called Derek perfect.

It still gave Derek a thrill every time.

Being untied didn’t give quite the same sense of relief when it wasn’t restrictive, but there was something cathartic about it nonetheless. Especially with a full body sheath like this. It was almost like shedding an old skin to come out fresh and new. Honestly, it felt sort of weird to put his clothes back on.

Derek looked up from lacing up his boots to find Stiles holding out two checks.

“From the last session,” he said. “You kind of left in a hurry.”

Derek took both checks, folding them into his pocket. He raised an eyebrow. “Bit of an understatement, don’t you think?”

“Okay, well, I was trying to be tactful for once!”

Derek snorted, shaking his head at Stiles’ indignation. He checked his phone for the time. Laura had sent him a text message sometime in the last three hours: a crossed fingers emoji, a thumbs up, and a kissy face. He smiled down at it.

“So, hey.” Stiles cleared his throat and leaned back against the couch in an overly casual sort of way. “I was wondering if, uh...I’ve got this cheesecake,” he said, which was certainly not on the list of things Derek would have expected from him. “One of Scott’s patients’ owners gave it to him, but Scott is more of a strudel kind of guy, so he gave it to me. And it’s way more than I can reasonably ingest all by my lonesome. So I thought, maybe, if you like cheesecake, you might want to help me out with it?”

Derek did like cheesecake. He liked it a lot, and he hadn’t had it in years. But he also liked _Stiles,_ and there was no way this wouldn’t be dangerous to Derek’s burgeoning crush, inappropriate and one-sided as it was. Stiles was just being nice, taking pity on Derek after he’d made such a fool of himself last week, but that wouldn’t stop Derek from getting more attached than he should.

Derek really did love cheesecake, though. He checked his phone again. It was still relatively early in the afternoon, and Laura’s text was right there, staring up at him. ( _You deserve nice people._ )

He stuffed his phone in his pocket and said, “Sure, why not?”

Stiles grinned and socked him in the shoulder before rushing off to the kitchen. He came back—quickly enough that Derek barely had time to second-guess his decision—with two giant slices that looked delicious enough to be worth potentially torturing himself with unrequited feelings for his employer. Stiles plopped down in the middle of the couch, rather than on the coffee table as he had done previously, and Derek was left to take the seat right beside him. The couch suddenly didn’t feel as big as it had before.

It wasn’t until halfway through their dessert that Derek picked up on the shifty vibe that Stiles was putting out. He was fidgety, which wasn’t exactly unusual for Stiles, but he also kept shooting sidelong looks at Derek and then looking away as soon as Derek caught him at it, which was a little weird. His scent, too, was starting to go sour around the edges. Derek didn’t like that, and he didn’t like the glances, and after the fourth look, even the cheesecake wasn’t enough to keep him from snapping.

“Stiles, why are you being so—”

“I know you’re a werewolf.”

The words were so unexpected that Derek was aware of his own instinctive reaction before he could understand what had caused it. A snarl got caught in his throat, claws itched at his fingertips, and it was all he could do to keep his seat instead of jump up and _run._ A loud clatter made him flinch, but it was just Stiles dropping his plate onto the coffee table so that he could hold his hands up, placating.

“Wait, wait, wait!” he was saying urgently. “No, Derek, it’s cool, okay? I’ve got nothing against werewolves. I’ve known about them for years, I mean, _jeez,_ half my friends are werewolves, and I am literally in a pack myself! This is totally a werewolf-friendly zone!”

Derek’s heart was racing, pounding against his chest with the urge to escape, but Stiles’ wasn’t. Stiles’ pulse was quick but as steady as the hands held up in front of him. He didn’t smell of wolfsbane or gunpowder or mistletoe or any of the other substances Derek had long since learned to associate with hunters. He never had. He smelled like sugar and hemp, sweat and deodorant, nerves and a touch of guilt. Wide brown eyes followed Derek carefully, but he didn’t look afraid, nor did he have the sort of savage watchfulness that had shown through in Kate’s every move.

Derek had never been very good at trusting his own instincts—they had failed him one too many times—but nothing about Stiles read as threatening to him.

It took more effort than it should have for Derek to loosen his grip on the fork in his hand, now twisted and mangled. He couldn’t do the same with the clench of his jaw, but he still managed to force out, “How did you…?”

Stiles let his hands fall, shoulders slumping with relief. “I saw your eyes do the flashy thing when you had that panic attack,” he said. “And I wasn’t going to say anything about it—I mean, it’s your business and you obviously didn’t _want_ me to know or else you would’ve told me yourself—but then I thought maybe it was, I don’t know, _dishonest_ or something for me to know and not tell you that I know. So I just wanted to...tell you. That I know. And it’s fine.”

Derek stared at him. “It’s just...fine?” He had had a blue-eyed werewolf lose control of himself completely in his living room, and that was _fine._

“Well, yeah.” Stiles ran a hand through his hair, leaving it to stick up in messy spikes. “Trust me, that was nothing compared to Scott’s first full moon. I had to chain him to a radiator to keep him from going on a rampage. He’s good now, though,” he added quickly. “No rampaging anywhere. He and Isaac both have really good control by now, even full moons don’t faze them anymore.”

Scott and Isaac—the best friend and the other model. Both werewolves. Derek figured he shouldn’t be so surprised by that. With a city the size of New York, it was only reasonable that there would be a correspondingly large supernatural population. He’d run into his fair share of other wolves through the years, after all, and no one cared much about keeping track of other packs as long as they didn’t cause trouble. He and Laura had just always kept to themselves.

“What about the others?” Derek asked. “The girls.”

“Oh, you mean Kira and Lydia?” Stiles thumbed in the direction of the ever-present portfolio. Then he laughed. “No, they would be the other half of my friends. Kitsune and banshee, respectively. Lydia’s sub Jackson is a werewolf—well, _mostly,_ there were some complications there—and Scott’s picked up a few more betas along the way, but the pack’s got a pretty good mix of species.”

He paused then, chewing on his lower lip like he wanted to ask about Derek’s pack in return. He didn’t, though, and Derek couldn’t help but be relieved.

Apparently reassured that Derek wasn’t going to make a break for it, at least, Stiles took up both their plates (and Derek’s bent fork) and disappeared into the kitchen, cheerfully relating the harrowing tale of a full moon a few months ago when his friend Liam had gone streaking through Central Park on a dare from his other friend Erica and Scott had had to spend two hours running interference to keep hapless civilians from seeing a different kind of moon.

Derek noticed that Stiles didn’t bother raising his voice above a normal speaking volume, knowing that Derek would be able to hear him just fine from the other room. It was the kind of habit that only came with spending a lot of time around people with advanced hearing. His human aunt Catherine had done the same thing, gotten so used to it that her human friends often complained about how soft-spoken she was. It had always made Derek laugh as a kid.

He thought about telling Stiles that. But then Stiles would probably ask if it still did, or how aunt Catherine was now, and Derek would have to tell him that she was dead. That they were all dead. And the mere thought of saying those words out loud had bile tickling at the back of his throat, not to mention the look of horror and pity that he would be sure to get in return.

So Derek stayed quiet, for the most part. Stiles didn’t seem to mind; he talked plenty enough for both of them anyway, and he didn’t push for Derek to share too. He told Derek about Jackson’s brief stint as a lizard monster while he made tea, about Isaac’s addiction to scarves even in the summer, about how long it took for his dad to stop lamenting that his life had turned into a B-rated horror film without his permission.

It was all a little surreal, sitting there in Stiles’ living room, complete with photography set and bondage gear, sipping tea and listening to the man tell anecdotes about the werewolf pack he belonged to. This was not how Derek had expected the day to go, that was for sure. But it was also really nice, which was probably most of the reason that Derek felt so off-kilter with it. Stiles’ pack sounded fun and happy and secure. One big family, like a pack was supposed to be. 

Like Derek’s had been, before he had destroyed it.

For once, that thought didn’t take root, didn’t drag him down or swell up to choke him. It couldn’t, not with Stiles turning around sideways on the couch and wiggling his toes under Derek’s thigh, regaling him with the ancient lacrosse rivalry between Scott and Jackson that still flared up on occasion. This wasn’t anything like being tied, but Derek still found his head an emptier place than usual.

His fingers curled loosely around Stiles’ ankle. Stiles didn’t even pause in his retelling, but Derek was almost certain the upward quirk of his mouth was for him rather than the stories of old.

The buzz of Derek’s phone startled them both. He pulled it out to find another text from Laura. Stiles raised an eyebrow in question.

“It’s from my sister,” Derek told him.

“Oh,” Stiles said. “Is she…?”

Derek only hesitated a second. “She’s my alpha.” He was pretty sure the pleased look that scrap of information—the first one he had volunteered all day—earned him from Stiles should not make him feel so warm, but he just cleared his throat and said, “And apparently she’s in my apartment with takeout. She expected me to be back by now.”

Stiles scrambled for his own phone to check the time, dislodging his feet from their cozy position, and promptly grimaced.

“Oh, wow. Wow, sorry, yeah, it’s getting— Has it really been that long?” He scratched at the back of his neck. “Sorry, man. I talk way too much. Usually people stop me before I really get going like that.”

“No,” Derek said, “it’s, uh. It’s fine. Don’t worry about it. I didn’t mind.”

Stiles blinked at him, suddenly looking a little dazed.

“What?”

It wasn’t until Stiles’ eyes shifted up to meet his that Derek realized what had gotten Stiles’ attention: he was smiling. Like, really, genuinely smiling. It wasn’t an expression his face recognized anymore.

Stiles went red in the face at being caught staring. “Nothing,” he said quickly. “I just— Nothing. So, uh, you need to be getting home soon, don’t you?”

“Yeah, probably.”

Neither of them moved, though, and Derek was struck with the thought that Stiles was as reluctant for this to end as he was. That realization did nothing to lessen his uncharacteristic grin and Derek ducked his head to hide what he thought might be a blush of his own. He forced himself off the couch before he did or said something stupid.

“I should go,” he said. “Before Laura tracks me down.”

“Best not keep a hungry alpha waiting,” Stiles said sagely. “If I leave Scott alone with our takeout for too long, I come home to an empty bag. You might want to run.”

Derek just shook his head. “I’ll see you later, Stiles.”

He was already out the door before he heard Stiles say, just quietly enough that he wasn’t entirely sure if Stiles meant for him to hear it or not: “I look forward to it.”

Derek smiled to himself all the way home.

* * *

Derek woke up early the next morning, no hangover to be found. He had plenty of time for a long shower and to stop by the coffee shop down the block to get a breakfast muffin. The barista looked at him like she had never seen him before, which was understandable. If nothing else, he was pretty sure that he had never been in before one in the afternoon, and certainly never in such a good mood.

He was looking forward to his day. He almost couldn’t believe it, but he was. The sun was shining, he had money in the bank, he and Laura were back on good terms, and he would be seeing Stiles soon for another photo shoot. The last one had gone better than Derek ever would have predicted it could, both in terms of the shoot itself and the hours after, when it had just been him and Stiles, the two of them _hanging out_ with no professional excuse at all.

Maybe, Derek thought to himself as he finished off the last of his muffin, already halfway through the walk to Stiles’ apartment. Maybe there could be something there, between them, something that might be worth pursuing. Maybe, once the project was officially finished and they were no longer employer and employee, he could ask Stiles to have a drink with him, to go out on a real date sometime.

The idea was a little shaky in his head, but then the last real date he had been on was with Paige back when he was fifteen. He had never gone on _dates_ with Kate—she hadn’t wanted to be seen with him in public—and the last few years had been spent hooking up, not looking for romance. But it was different with Stiles.

At least, it was for Derek. He still didn’t have any real confirmation that Stiles would be interested in dating him, that he would want to keep spending time with Derek once the photo shoots were over, that he wouldn’t just laugh or look horrified if Derek asked. Sure, he had seemed to enjoy Derek’s company yesterday, but it was possible that he had just liked having an audience for his theatrics and Derek had been there and willing. He didn’t really _know_ Derek, after all.

And in all their time together and all the compromising positions he had been in, Derek couldn’t help but remember that he had never smelled arousal on Stiles.

Derek shook the thought off. This was Stiles’ job, not something he did to get off. It didn’t mean that Stiles wasn’t attracted to him at all. And Derek refused to second guess himself on this. His gut, for all its faults and its previous missteps, said that Stiles liked him. Derek really wanted to trust that, for once.

Of course, once the shoots were over, regardless of whether or not Stiles said yes, Derek would only have so long before he needed to find another job. The buoyant feeling of security that Derek was floating on was only temporary, he knew that much, and for all the warm fuzzies between him and Laura at the moment, it would only be a matter of time before the money became an issue again.

But that was a thought for later. After the shoot—and hopefully after a drink or two with Stiles—Derek would take another stab at craigslist. He could look for more modeling jobs, even if he had to put up with mockery from Laura about it later. Stiles seemed to like working with him on set, and he had said other photographers were sure to like his look too. Stiles might even have connections in the industry that he could put Derek in contact with, get him some interviews, put in a good word for him. Hell, Derek might even be able to make a career out of this!

Derek leaned up against a lamp post to wait for the crosswalk signal, exchanging genial nods with his fellow pedestrians. His phone rang before the light changed and he picked up on the third ring.

“Good morning, Laura,” he said. “You’ll be happy to know that my rent has been paid! This month in full, plus an advance on next month to smooth over the ruffled feathers with Mr. Saltzman from being late so often. I am off to work right now and this next check should cover me for another month, possibly two if I—”

“Derek.”

Her tone brought Derek to a halt halfway across a busy intersection. It was a distinct blend of reluctant and pitying that he knew all too well. That tone only ever meant one thing and Derek already knew that he didn’t want to hear what she had to say. He didn’t want to hear it at all.

“I need to…” He swallowed through a dry mouth. “...to get to work, Laura. I’ll talk to you—”

“The hospital called,” Laura said before he could disconnect the call. “About Peter.”

Of course it was about Peter. There was no one else left alive for it to be about.

Someone bumped into Derek, a rough shoulder against his, and Derek was off-balance enough to stumble. The stranger mumbled an apology but Derek didn’t hear it over the rushing sound in his ears.

“It’s nothing bad,” Laura assured him. “He’s actually been doing pretty well lately, relatively speaking, which you would know if you ever answered when they tried to call you.”

Derek shook his head even though he knew she couldn’t see him. Laura didn’t need to. She made a noise, vaguely apologetic.

“I know, I know,” she sighed. “It’s fine. I get it. Anyway, they just wanted to let us know that there have been some minor changes to Peter’s treatment. They’re moving him to a different facility to accommodate it. Might up the price tag a bit, but we don’t have to worry about that. The insurance money will still be enough to cover it.”

The payout, she meant, from the life insurance policies for their dead family. The millions of dollars mean to compensate them for all the people they had lost, the people that _Derek_ had helped to kill. _That_ money, currently used to support and care for the one person to make it out of the inferno clinging to some semblance of life.

“Don’t stress about it, okay, Derek?” Laura said gently. “I just thought that you should know.”

“Right,” Derek heard himself say. “Thanks.”

He hung up. His hands were shaking. All of him was shaking, really, a fine tremble that made his breath hitch and his vision blur. For a moment, all he could see was Peter, wrapped head to toe in bloody gauze, laid out on a hospital bed that was stark white against the black and red of its occupant, while green scrubs raced around in a frenzy. He could still smell the thick-dark scent of charred meat, clogging his throat until he felt like he might choke on it.

That was the last time he had seen Peter in person. He hadn’t gone back to the hospital before he and Laura had left town, and he hadn’t gone with her the few times she had flown back out to visit. There was no point. It wasn’t like Peter would know if he was there or not; he had been stubbornly comatose for the last seven years. No one knew why—his werewolf healing should’ve taken care of it a long time ago. All Derek knew was that it was his fault.

It was his fault that Peter was where he was, trapped in that hospital, broken and withering. It was his fault that everyone else was dead and Peter was alone. It was his fault that Kate had known what she needed to know so that she could set the fire without being detected. Hell, it was his fault that his family had even come to the hunter’s attention in the first place, through killing Paige.

It was his fault that Laura always had to deal with the doctors because he was too weak and pathetic to handle it himself like he should. He couldn’t even look at the bank account; the mere thought of that blood money paying for anything at all made him sick to his stomach, like he might just lose his breakfast right there in the middle of the street. He couldn’t stand to _profit_ from the murder of his family. Peter’s care was the only exception, and that was because Derek was the reason Peter needed care at all. He was responsible for it.

Everything came back to him and his fuckups, and it was always someone else who suffered for it. His dead family, Peter, Laura. And Stiles too, if he stuck around long enough.

What had Derek been _thinking,_ trying to start something with Stiles? Where did he get off even entertaining the possibility that he could deserve a good thing like that? He was a pathetic fuckup with blood on his hands who destroyed everything he touched. 

A car horn blared, the vehicle speeding by close enough for Derek to feel the force of it. A volley of honks sounded, drivers shouting for him to get out of the way, and Derek finally uprooted himself. His legs didn’t want to respond the way they were supposed to, but he made it to the sidewalk without getting run over and collapsed back against the brick facade of the nearest building: _Mickey’s Tavern, Happy Hour 6-8._

God, Derek wanted a drink. He wanted to drink and drink until he forgot the twisted, blackened mess of Peter’s face. He wanted to find the lowest lowlife in town and push and goad and talk back until he got what he deserved from them. Drunk backroom fucks and overdue rent, _that_ was what Derek deserved, not gentle hands and bright smiles.

But it wasn’t happy hour yet. It was almost two o’clock and Stiles was waiting for him. Derek didn’t have time to get fucked up, no matter how much he wanted to, and he couldn’t just blow Stiles off. Derek might deserve that, but Stiles didn’t. Not again.

Derek tried to take a deep breath. It got lodged high in his chest like a shard of ice, refusing to let his lungs inflate. He dug claws into the palms of his hands until they bled and he could inhale again, just enough to make his head stop spinning.

This was the last shoot. He could make it through one last session and finish out the project he had signed on for. He just needed to get it over with, get his last check, and then he could go back to _The Cellar_ and get what he needed. What he had earned for himself.

And Stiles wouldn’t have to worry about Derek anymore. He would be out of Stiles’ life for good. It would be better that way, for both of them.

* * *

Stiles wasn’t smiling when he opened the door for once. His brow was furrowed, full lips pulled down at the corners, and his hair looked like he’d run his fingers through it a few times and not bothered to flatten it down afterward.

“Hey,” he said as he stood back to let Derek inside. “You’re late.”

Derek’s fists clenched in the pockets of his jacket; he had heard that a million times before. From professors before he dropped out, from Laura hours past the curfew she had tried to set for him, from any number of bosses and supervisors just before they handed him his pink slip. From his mother, the morning of the fire, chivying him out the door to school.

He swallowed around the memory. “Sorry.”

“S’alright,” Stiles said with a shrug. “It’s not like this is some hugely time sensitive thing, and you’re just a few minutes behind. Are you okay, though? You’re usually pretty punctual. And anyway, you look a little…”

Stiles trailed off. He was making a show of checking the settings on his camera, but his eyes were on Derek, narrowed and watchful. _Concerned._ It pricked at Derek like needles. He swallowed down the urge to scream at Stiles, to rage and storm until Stiles stopped caring so damn much about someone who wasn’t worth his time. He clenched his jaw.

“I’m fine,” he said. “Got caught up in some traffic.”

Laura had once told Derek that he looked perpetually angry, even when he wasn’t, that it was just the way his face was set up. For once, he was glad of that. It meant that Stiles had no reason not to believe his words, even if it was obvious that he was skeptical. When Derek turned away to undress without prompting, Stiles let it go.

Derek didn’t bother to listen as Stiles explained what he was going to do. He couldn’t make himself focus in on Stiles’ words anyway. He was too busy breathing, slow and even, trying to quell the frantic pace of his heart. It hadn’t stopped racing since Laura had first said his name earlier and the tattoo of it was loud and insistent in his ears, every beat letting him know that he was _alive._ Reminding him of how unfair it was for him to be here when everyone else was gone.

He closed his eyes tight. The floor was hard against his bare knees and, if he blocked out everything else, he could almost pretend that he was in the bathroom stall of _The Cellar_ again, some uncaring thug looming above him, holding him down on the filthy ground where he belonged.

Rope wound its way around his chest, back and forth and then up to snake around his neck: a collar, loose enough not to choke, held in place by lines that attached in either direction. The line down his back found its home around his wrists, once again clasped at the small of his back. Derek’s fingers found their place as well, holding tight to the nearest loop of the cuff until they went bloodless with the force of his grip.

Stiles’ hands on his shoulders were an easy pressure, nowhere near the bruising force he was used to. No matter how Derek leaned into them, strained against them, they didn’t push back. Stiles had never pushed back against him, not like this. He had always touched Derek like he was meant to be handled with care and it _ached._

That touch reached down into Derek’s chest and it _burned_ like the fire that had taken his family away from him. The last person to touch him so tenderly had been Kate— _fake,_ it had all been a lie, everything except the sex, that was all he had been good for to her, it was all he was good for to _anyone—_ and there was no reason for Stiles to brush his fingers over Derek’s arms and murmur that he was _doing so good, beautiful, just like that,_ when he wasn’t even getting anything out of it.

Stiles had treated him so nicely, and for what? Derek wasn’t worth this.

Stiles was saying something else, a question maybe. Derek didn’t hear it. Stiles’ palm was wide and hot against his heaving back and Derek needed to do something, _anything,_ to earn it. There was nothing he could do to bring his family back or un-ruin his uncle, but he could pay Stiles back for all his attention.

It was awkward without the use of his arms, but Derek had too much experience on his knees for that to stop him. When Stiles came around in front of him, Derek buried his face in Stiles’ crotch. He wasn’t hard, but that was fine, Derek could get him there. He could make it _good_ for Stiles.

Only, Stiles’ hands came down on his shoulders again, and they weren’t so gentle this time.

“ _Whoa, hey!_ ” Stiles pushed at him, holding him at bay. “Derek, what are you doing?”

Derek bucked hard enough to dislodge Stiles’ grip on him. Up close, Stiles smelled of musk and soap and worn denim, and Derek had almost gotten the zipper in his teeth when Stiles shoved at him again, simultaneously dancing back out of range.

Stiles swore. Derek tried to shake him off again, but Stiles’ fingers dug in, sharp little bursts of pain that he barely noticed. He pulled against the rope cuffs keeping his hands from him and bit back a growl when they didn’t give.

“Let me,” he heard himself say. “Please let me, Stiles. Let me make you feel good.”

“Jesus _Christ,_ Derek, stop!”

“Please,” he said again. His throat was tight, his chest too, and every muscle hurt with the way he strained forward, but he couldn’t stop. “I can do it, Stiles, I can—”

But Stiles was shaking his head. His eyes were wide with alarm, scent acrid. He said, “Derek, I don’t want that.”

Derek whined. The pathetic sound got lost in the staticky buzz of panic in his ears, growing with every second that Stiles wouldn’t let him do what he needed to do. He just needed to do this one thing and everything would be okay. _Why wouldn’t Stiles let him do it?_

“No,” Stiles said, fingers flexing. “No, Derek, you don’t need to do anything. Why would you think that?”

He was still too far away, too far for Derek to reach him no matter how much he strained. Already Stiles’ hands were the only things keeping Derek from falling forward. Derek kept pushing anyway, uncaring.

“Yes,” he pleaded. “You’ve been so good to me, I need to— I can make it up to you— _Please,_ just—”

“ _Derek, stop!_ ”

One firm hand moved from Derek’s shoulder to the center of his chest. Stiles was kneeling now and that wasn’t what Derek had wanted at all. He wanted to kneel for Stiles. He wanted to pay his dues. He wanted to prove that he was _worth_ something to someone, even if this was the only way he could do it.

More than anything, he wanted to stop _feeling_ like this.

He didn’t know when he had started crying, but the tears were wet and cold on his cheeks and his chest heaved, the ropes biting in with each gasped breath. Stiles shushed him. He cupped Derek’s cheek and said his name, so softly, and Derek couldn’t breathe through the pall of sadness in the air.

He found himself wrapped up in Stiles’ arms, his nose pressed into the crook of Stiles’ neck where his natural scent was the strongest. There was no fighting or returning the embrace with his hands bound, and Derek wasn’t sure which he would’ve done anyway. He had no choice but to let Stiles hold him, stroke his hair, rock him from side to side.

“You’re fine, Derek,” he said, lips brushing against the shell of Derek’s ear. “You don’t owe me this. You don’t owe me _anything._ God, Derek—” His voice cracked. “You’re worth so much more than this.”

Derek choked on his next sob. He tried to shake his head, but Stiles just tightened his hold and said it again. And again. And again. Every stuttered denial or plea, Stiles said the same thing, until Derek couldn’t fight him anymore. Until there was nothing left in him but the feeling of Stiles’ warmth surrounding him, steady and safe.

He was still saying it when Derek finally let his exhaustion drag him under.

* * *

Derek’s head hurt. It wasn’t quite a hangover—he was too familiar with those to not recognize the difference—but it wasn’t too far off. It still meant that trying to open his eyes wasn’t an appealing prospect. He rolled over and buried his face in the pillow, chasing the comforting scent sunk into the fabric.

It wasn’t his scent.

This wasn’t his bed.

The room was dim when Derek sat up to examine it, blue curtains drawn shut. It was still light out, but only just. There was a cluttered desk pushed up underneath the window, a bookshelf stuffed to bursting tucked into the corner, and a pile of clothes on the floor that looked like they had never been folded. A triptych of Star Wars posters stared down at Derek from the far wall.

He was in Stiles’ bedroom. The reason why came back to him in bits and pieces, fuzzy and distant and no less horrifying for it. Nausea strong enough to rival any hangover-related queasiness rose up in him, and he didn’t even remember half of what he had said and done. He had a feeling he didn’t want to.

“You’re awake.”

Derek turned to find Stiles leaning in the doorway, shoulder against the jam. He had changed out of his jeans and button-up from earlier, swimming now in sweats and a pullover hoodie, feet bare against the beige carpet. He looked tired. Sounded it too. He had a bottle of gatorade in his hand, which he held up and gave a little shake.

“Brought you this. Should help bring you back up,” he said. “Works for Isaac, anyway.”

He opened the bottle before holding it out. For a long moment, Derek just looked at it, waiting for the punchline, or the explosion, or for Stiles to throw him out like he should’ve done hours ago.

None of that happened. Derek took the bottle. The first swallow washed away most of his headache, as expected, and Derek had a strange moment of deja vu, remembering Laura and her water bottle, her tapping toes and her ultimatum. It didn’t help to settle his stomach, but he took another sip anyway.

Stiles was hovering with that restless sort of energy that he got sometimes, thumbnail in his mouth. He didn’t take the bottle back when Derek offered it. Instead, he huffed and sat down abruptly, making the whole bed shake.

“Okay, so we definitely need to talk about that.”

“No, we don’t.”

Derek tried to slide out the other side of the bed. Stiles caught him by the wrist before he could. His grip wasn’t strong, and a human like Stiles would never have been able to hold Derek in place if he really wanted to get away, but that simple touch was enough to make Derek freeze in place.

It still took Stiles a few seconds to find his words.

“Derek, what the hell happened back there?” he asked finally. “That was…” He didn’t seem to know how to finish. Derek had never expected to see Stiles of all people rendered speechless and there was no sense of accomplishment for it.

“It was nothing,” Derek tried again. “I’m sorry you had to see that. And that I—” He couldn’t make himself say it. God, he was such an idiot, and a pathetic, desperate one at that. Stiles had never wanted him like that—possibly the only person on the planet to _not_ want Derek like that—and now Derek had practically guaranteed that Stiles would never want anything to do with him again.

Derek couldn’t even blame him for that; he didn’t want anything to do with himself.

“I was upset,” he said hoarsely. “I had gotten some…bad news.”

“What kind of bad news?”

Derek turned away.

Stiles made a noise of frustration. “Derek, if you would just _talk to me,_ ” he said. “Just a little bit. Please? We can’t make this work if you don’t at least pretend to communicate, okay? Open communication is sort of a big deal with the stuff we’ve been doing, and—”

Derek cut across him with a scoff that felt like it scraped his throat raw on the way out. “There is no _this._ ”

Stiles’ fingers tightened around Derek’s wrist, just for a second, like a reflex. Then they loosened enough that Derek thought he was going to let go completely, but he didn’t. Derek couldn’t bring himself to pull out of that slack hold, or to look up and see what was in Stiles’ expression. Normally he reveled in other people’s disdain for him, let it soak into the cracks of his being and remind him of why he did what he did—why he let _them_ do what _they_ did—but the cracks were suddenly too wide, too deep not to just break him apart completely.

“There could be.”

Derek had to look then, if only to verify that his ears weren’t playing tricks on him. Stiles looked back at him steadily, heart thumping in double time. Slowly, more than slowly enough for Derek to protest if he wanted to, Stiles released Derek’s wrist and followed the line of his hand down until he could tangle their fingers together. His thumb skipped across Derek’s knuckles, back and forth in a caress that made Derek’s breath stutter in his chest.

“I like you,” Stiles said plainly. “I like you a lot, Derek, and not for…” He waved his other hand vaguely. “…whatever it was you were trying to offer out there.”

Derek’s face went hot with shame. He tried to tug his hand away, but Stiles didn’t let go. He just held on tighter.

“You’re funny,” Stiles insisted. “You know that, Derek? You’re sweet, you’re smart, you’re a great listener. You’ve got a smile that could block out the freaking sun. You like cheesecake, so you obviously have good taste.”

Derek had to roll his eyes at that one, even as his stomach flipped over in a totally non-nauseous way and a voice in his head murmured _perfect, beautiful, good._ “Stiles, I’m not—”

“Not what?” Stiles asked pointedly. “Not good enough for me?”

Derek closed his mouth helplessly; he had definitely said something along those lines, hadn’t he? Along with a whole lot of other completely humiliating bullshit that should rightly drive anyone and everyone as far away from him as they could get.

Stiles didn’t budge. He squeezed Derek’s hand and said, “I’m pretty sure I made my thoughts on that pretty clear earlier.”

Earlier, when he had knelt on the hard wooden floor for god knew how long, running gentle fingers through Derek’s hair while Derek had a complete meltdown all over him. He hadn’t run, even when Derek had practically assaulted him. He had stayed, and he was still here now, holding Derek’s fucking hand like tweens at a middle school dance, and it was almost more than Derek could believe.

There was no way that he could just _have_ this.

Was there?

“Look,” Stiles said into the silence between them. “Obviously you’re going through some shit right now. I don’t know if it’s about that woman you mentioned, or if it’s a family thing, or what. But whatever it is, it doesn’t make me not like you. It doesn’t change the way I feel when I’m around you.”

“Maybe it should.”

Because Stiles didn’t have the slightest clue of what Derek was going through. What he had been putting himself through for so long. What he put everyone _else_ through just by being around them. There was a reason that Derek had spent the last seven years alone, and that reason was _Derek._ He was meant to be alone, and the warmth growing in him with each of Stiles’ words was dangerous.

Hope was a stubborn thing, though. The corner of Stiles’ mouth tugged up, just a bit, and the feeling leapt up to lodge in Derek’s throat, blocking all the words that still wanted to come tumbling out, all the protests and the arguments. Why was he fighting this so hard? Why did he have to turn away from something that made him feel as good as having Stiles smile at him like that felt? Maybe, for once in his godforsaken life, Derek could just let himself _have_ something. Someone nice, like Laura had said.

Someone like Stiles, who was shifting closer, the bunched up bedsheets the only thing keeping their knees from pressing together. Stiles, who licked his lips and took a shaky breath, eyes flicking over Derek’s face like he couldn’t get enough of it.

“One thing you might not know about me just yet,” he said. “I don’t give up on people. Not when they matter to me.”

Stiles leaned in further, free hand coming up to cup Derek’s cheek as it had done the night before, making sure that Derek couldn’t look away again. Up this close, Derek could see the flecks of gold in the honey-brown of his eyes, count every long eyelash, map out every mole and freckle spattered across his nose.

He couldn’t imagine ever wanting to look away from this, and yet his eyes still slipped closed when Stiles closed the distance between them. The press of warm lips against his wasn’t entirely foreign—he didn’t make a point to kiss his hookups, usually, but some of them liked the foreplay aspect and he wasn’t one to deny anyone what they wanted from him—but the hesitancy was, the way Stiles lingered at the barest touch, waiting for some sign that Derek wanted this as much as he did.

Derek did want it. He wanted it so badly that his head swam with the having of it, and there was nothing for him to do but push for more. And for once, Stiles pushed back. He surged forward to claim Derek’s mouth as his own, fingers tangling in Derek’s hair to pin him in place, teeth catching on his lower lip with a delicious pressure.

It didn’t last long, but Derek was still left breathless when it ended, winded and flying high on the rush of it. Neither of them pulled away. Stiles’ lips brushed against Derek’s own when he said, “You matter to me, Derek,” in a voice gone rough and low.

Derek shivered.

“You _matter,_ ” Stiles repeated. “So whatever it is that you need to get you through this, I’m going to be right here to give it to you, okay? I want to help you, however I can. And you can’t scare me away, you got that? I’m here for you, Derek. Anything you need.”

Stiles’ heart was steady, scent sweet, eyes clear and bright.

The warmth in Derek froze over like a winter lake, brittle and cracking, because he had heard all those same earnest promises before. From Laura, over and over again. Years she had spent trying to help him, to support him, to _save_ him from himself, _killing_ herself with it because she had wanted exactly what Stiles wanted: to fix him.

In that moment, Derek saw with icy clarity what both of them had failed to realize: he was too broken to be fixed, and they would only cut themselves on every jagged edge. Laura already bore the scars of trying—every fake-bright smile, every strained pep talk, every sharp word and bone-tired, worn-thin, undeserved apology—and Stiles…

Derek couldn’t do this to him too.

He heard his own voice from a distance. “I’m tired.” He couldn’t tell if he sounded upset, or strange, or as blank and empty as he felt. He couldn’t have seemed too off because Stiles only frowned at him a little bit.

“Can’t blame you for that,” he said. “I’d be tired too, if I were you.”

He still had a hold of Derek’s hand. It took more force of will than Derek would’ve expected—almost more than he could muster up—to untangle them. He came away chilled.

“I should go home.”

Stiles frowned outright now. “Wait, Derek, you— You might still be coming down from everything. It wasn’t exactly a scene, per se, but that doesn’t mean you don’t need some aftercare. I really don’t think you should be alone tonight.”

Derek stilled halfway off the bed. Every cell in his body was screaming for alone, but he could still feel the heat where Stiles’ palm had rested against his jaw. Stiles was watching him, unsure now where he had been so confident just a few seconds ago, and Derek hated that he could put that look on Stiles’ face. He hated that, no matter what he did, whether he stayed or he left, he was guaranteed to hurt Stiles.

He sank back down. Stiles let out a breath.

“Good,” he declared. He pushed himself to his feet, hands swinging at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them now that they weren’t touching Derek anymore. “You go ahead and get some rest,” he said. “I can sleep on the couch, if you want me to, if all of this is too fast or too weird or you just don’t like sharing beds, because I know there actually a lot of people who don’t really—”

“You can stay.”

Derek didn’t know what possessed him to say it when he already knew what he was going to do. Then he saw the way Stiles’ shoulders slumped with obvious relief and a grin crept back onto his face, and he knew. He would do anything to not hurt Stiles more than he had to.

Derek had never slept beside someone before. He had never had someone curl in close to him in the dark, tuck themselves up under his arm, and lay their head on his chest. He had never stayed awake to count their breaths and never, in all his fucked up life, had he _known_ he was going to lose someone before he had already lost them.

He didn’t sleep that night, and he was long gone before Stiles awoke.

**Author's Note:**

> I'M SO SORRY Y'ALL, I HOPE SOMEDAY I WILL CONTINUE THIS AND RECTIFY ALL OF THE PAIN, IN THE MEANTIME PLEASE CRY WITH ME
> 
> (non-con touching: Derek has a bit of an emotional breakdown near the end. he convinces himself that he needs to pay Stiles back for being so nice to him via sex, because that's where he feels his only value lies. he tries really hard to give Stiles a blowjob, but he's bound and largely restrained at the time so it's not very effective. Stiles holds him at bay until he breaks down completely and holds him through the aftermath until he falls asleep. no clothes come off, no significant contact is made, but both parties are very distressed (for vastly different reasons).
> 
> if you want to skip that bit, it starts with "It was awkward without the use of his arms" and ends at the end of the section. )


End file.
